IN WHICH I BEGIN TO WONDER "IS IT ME, OR IS IT NOT ME?"
I had told nobody aboard the Scarboro the particulars of my home-life,
or the incidents leading to my being swept out to sea in the
Wavecrest. Had Ben Gibson been my mate in the crew instead of holding
the position of second officer, undoubtedly he would have had my full
confidence. As things stood, I had no desire to take either Ben or the
old sailor into closer communion with my thoughts.
The great steamship passed us and swept up the Silver River, leaving the
Wavecrest far behind. She would reach Buenos Ayres fully twenty-four
hours before the sloop could make that port. But this delay did not
trouble me at the time. I wanted to think the situation over, anyway.
At the start I was pretty sure that Paul Downes had not come down here
on my account. He wasn't looking for me. Nor did it seem that he had
left home under very favorable circumstances. Otherwise he would not be
peeling vegetables for the cook of the Peveril.
After the first confusion passed from my mind I could pretty easily
figure out the probable incidents that had brought my cousin down here.
I knew about how long it had taken the steamship to voyage from her home
port. Had my letters been delivered in Bolderhead within reasonable
time, my mother and Ham, and the others must have been aware of the
explanation of my absence a week or two previous to the sailing of the
Peveril from Boston.
I had told Mr. Hounsditch, our lawyer, the whole truth about my sloop
being swept away; I had likewise advised Ham Mayberry to gather what
evidence he could against my cousin and those who had helped him commit
the outrage that had placed me in such peril. It was a cinch that Paul
had got wind of these discoveries, had been fearful of being arrested
for his part in the crime, and had run away from home.
In doing so, too, it was evident that his father, Mr. Chester Downes,
had not been a party to his escape. Paul had slipped away without his
father's help or knowledge of his going. Otherwise Paul would not have
been in a moneyless state, and he must have been moneyless before he
would have gone to work. Paul didn't love work, I knew; and I could
imagine that there was no fun connected with the job he seemed to have
annexed aboard the Peveril.
I reckoned I should probably hear all about it when I went to the
consul's office at Buenos Ayres. Either my mother, or Ham, would write
me the particulars of Paul's running away from home. The Bayne Liner was
no mailboat; I expected that my letters had been awaiting me for some
time at the port; and the money could have been cabled nearly a month
before this date.
Well, we got into Buenos Ayres in good season, and I noted where the
Peveril was docked. We moored outside a raft of small sailing crafts and
had the dickens of a time taking Ben Gibson ashore on his mattress. A
couple of blacks helped us, and after sending in a telephone message to
the hospital, a very modern and up-to-date motor ambulance came down and
whisked us all off to that institution. I couldn't speak Spanish, nor
could Ben; but those medicos could talk English after a fashion, and
soon Ben was fixed fine in a private room and the doctors declared he'd
be fit as a fiddle in six weeks.
Then it was up to old Tom and me to find a place to camp. The sailor was
for going back to the sloop where board and lodging wouldn't cost us
much; but I confess I was hungry for something more civilized. I wanted
bed-sheets and ham and eggs for breakfast--or whatever the Buenos Ayres
equivalent was for those viands!
We made some inquiries--of course along the water-front--and found a
decent sailors' boarding house kept by a withered old Mestizo woman (the
Mestizoes are the native population of Argentina) who had some idea of
cleanliness and could cook beans and fish in more ways than you could
shake a stick at; only, as Tom objected very soon, all her culinary
results tasted alike because of the pepper!
It was after breakfast the morning following our arrival that Tom
uttered this criticism. We were on our way to the hospital. We found Ben
feeling "bully" as he weakly told us, when we were allowed to go up to
his private room. Captain Rogers had given him drafts on a local banker
and he was fixed _right_ at that hospital. The doctors had examined him
again and pronounced him coming on fine. So, with my mind at rest about
him, I tacked away for the little dobe building down toward the
water-front which at that day flew the American flag from the staff upon
its roof.
It was a busy place and most of the clerks I saw were Mestizoes, or
Spaniards, or the several shades of color between the two races. Spanish
seemed to be spoken for the most part; but finally a man came out of a
rear office and asked me abruptly what I wanted.
"I'd like to see Mr. Hefferan," I said.
"He's busy. Can't see him. What do you want?" snapped this man.
"I'm an American, and I'd like to see him," I began, but the fellow, who
had been looking me over pretty scornfully broke in:
"That's impossible, I tell you. Tell me what you want? Had trouble with
your captain? Overstayed your leave? Or have you just got out of jail?"
Now, I hadn't thought before this just how disreputable I looked. I was
dressed in the slops I had got out of the Scarboro's chest, was
barefooted, and was burned almost as black as any negro--where the skin
showed, at least. I couldn't much blame this whippersnapper of a
consul's clerk for thinking me a tough subject.
"None of those things fit my case, Mister," I said, mildly. "I know I
don't look handsome, but I've been on a whaling bark for several months
and I haven't had time yet to tog up."
"A whaleship?" he asked. "An American whaleship?"
"Yes, sir," said I.
"There is none in port."
"No, sir. I have been with the Scarboro. I'm mighty sure she's not in
port."
"The Scarboro?" he asked me with a sudden queer look coming into his
face. "You're one of the crew of the Scarboro?"
"Not exactly one of her crew. But she picked me up adrift and I have
been with her until lately."
"You come in here," said the clerk, slowly, motioning me into the room
behind him. And when we were in there he motioned me to a seat and sat
down himself in front of me. "Let's hear your yarn," he said.
I thought it was rather strange he should be so interested, and likewise
that he should stare at me so all the time I was talking. But I gave him
a pretty good account of my adventures from the time I was blown out of
Bolderhead Harbor, finishing with how I came to be at Buenos Ayres
without the bark herself being within six or seven hundred miles of the
port.
"So that's your yarn, is it?" he asked me grimly, when I was done.
I stared at him in turn. To tell the truth, I was getting a little warm.
His face showed nothing like good-humor and friendliness. I waited to
see what it meant.
"So that's your yarn?" he repeated. "I thought when I set eyes on you
that you were a tricky fellow. But this caps all!" Why, he suddenly
raised his voice and stood up, "what do you mean by coming here with
such a yarn? I've a mind to clap you into jail!"
I stood up, too. I must confess that I felt a bit scared. It was a
pretty hot day. I didn't know but maybe the heat had overcome the fellow
and he had gone crazy.
"How dare you come here with such a tale as this, you dirty
beach-comber?" he demanded, shaking his fist in my face. "If Colonel
Hefferan was here I don't doubt he'd kick you out of the place. And
you'd better go quick, as it is. Don't you show your face here
again----"
All the time he had been walking me backward to the door. I had been
obliged to keep stepping to keep before him. But I backed up against the
door and stopped. I was getting angry, and I thought I'd gone far
enough.
"I don't know what you're driving at," I said. "But one thing I do
know. My name is Clinton Webb, I have every reason to believe that my
mother has cabled me some money in Mr. Hefferan's care, and I expect
there are letters for me, too. I want the money and the letters----"
"Too late, you scoundrel!" he snarled at me, still shaking his fist.
"Your game is played too late. Not that we would have believed a
scoundrelly beach-comber like you----"
"You don't believe what?" I shot in, raising my voice.
"I know you're not Clinton Webb."
"WHAT?"
"You're too late," he said, laughing nastily. "Mr. Webb came here
yesterday. He identified himself to the satisfaction of Colonel
Hefferan, and he got his money and letters. I don't know who put you up
to this trick, but you're too late, I tell you!"
He managed to push me aside and now pulled open the door. He put a
whistle to his lips and blew a shrill blast. Two barefooted, but very
husky negroes came running in from the portico. I had noticed them
lounging there when I entered.
He said something sharply to them in Spanish, and they grabbed me. My
blood was boiling, and I believe if they had given me a moment's warning
I would have sailed into them. But they held me on either side, and a
hundred and eighty pounds of negro on each arm was too much for me. They
dragged me toward the main door of the building in a hurry.
"You get out of here!" cried the consul's clerk behind me. "And don't
you dare come back. If you do you'll go to the calaboose as sure as
you're a foot high!"
I found myself out upon the sun-broiled street, with the two grinning
guards barring my return. It had never entered my mind before that Uncle
Sam is sometimes served by an ignorant and pompous nincompoop!
But the satisfaction of making this discovery had a bitter taste. I did
not know what to do. My mind was in a whirl. I had some few letters and
papers in my pockets by which I had expected--after a time--to assure
the consul of my identity. But it seemed that I wasn't to be given a
chance to explain who and what I was.
Somebody had been ahead of me. Some person unknown had represented me
before the consul and had, it appeared, made good. My money and my
letters had been turned over to this person----
"Paul Downes for a dollar bill!" I ejaculated. "It can't be anybody
else. Who else would know enough about me to represent himself as Clint
Webb? He probably knew all about the money and letters. He got away from
home broke, worked his passage out here got here only a few hours before
I did, and he has beaten me to the consul. Whatever shall I do?"
It was not that I was entirely helpless, although I had only a dollar
in my pocket. Captain Rogers was to pay me the hundred dollars he had
promised me at the end of the whaling voyage, if I decided not to return
to the Scarboro. Ben Gibson was sick in the hospital, and old Tom and I
were both dependent upon him for our board money. I didn't propose to be
an object of charity. But I must confess that what I _did_ mean to do
had not as yet formed itself rationally in my mind when I got back to
old Maria Debora's.
Tom was out somewhere seeing the sights. He had not gone with me to the
consul's office. Supper time came before the old man showed up and I sat
down among the first of the boarders. They were a cosmopolitan lot,
rough seamen from several quarters of the globe. They spoke half a dozen
different languages and dialects.
I sat with my back to the door, and was only aware of the entrance of
another party of men by the noise and stir behind me.
"Will you pass down a dish of those beans mate?" I had just called above
the hubbub, speaking to a man across the table.
Instantly somebody stepped quickly behind my chair. A hand came down
heavily on my shoulder.
"By all the e-tar-nal snakes!" ejaculated a nasal voice. "I knew I
couldn't be mistaken about that back. But the voice convinced me. By the
e-tar-nal snakes! Professor, how came you here?"
I turned slowly to see who had thus addressed me. It was a tall
individual at my side--long legged, very lean, and when he laughed it
sounded like a horse neighing. He was so very tall that I had not raised
my eyes far enough to see his face before he spoke again.
"Professor! ye sartainly give me a start. By the e-tar-nal snakes! I
could have taken my dying oath you wasn't north o' the cape o' the
Virgins. What you doin' yere in Maria Debora's?"
It began to be impressed on my mind with force that I was a good deal
like the little old woman of the nursery rhyme. I wondered whether this
was really me, or was it not me? My identity as Clinton Webb had been
denied at the consul's, and here a perfect stranger was calling me out
of my name--and he seemed insistent upon it, too!