Chubby the Eater
"Robbed?" cried Bob, almost unbelievingly.
Before he could say anything further, a tall, dark man appeared at the
front of the coach. Roughly he shouted something in the native tongue,
at the same time flashing a shining pistol in full view of all.
"Quick!" exclaimed Mr. Wallace, taking advantage of an opportunity.
"Hide our money--under the seat there next to you."
The naturalist handed his pocketbook to Bob, who had taken his own
purse from his pocket. The two he placed in a little crack between the
seat and the side of the coach.
He was not a moment too soon. Scarcely had the youth resumed his
natural position when the robber appeared before him and demanded
money.
"Our pockets are empty," Mr. Wallace told the man. "You can't get
anything from a poor man."
The Colombian soon found that the naturalist spoke the truth. But
even then he was a bit suspicious. Americans or Europeans--he knew not
which they were--usually were rich, carrying with them much money. And
that these two had boarded the train with empty pockets was indeed
surprising.
Search as he did, however, he could find no trace of any money. But he
was somewhat satisfied when he took possession of Mr. Wallace's
handsome watch.
Luckily Bob had left his timepiece in the cabin of the monoplane,
having forgotten it in the excitement of the day. Strange to say, this
was the first day in the week that the youth had not worn it.
"Well," said Mr. Wallace, after the man had gone, "I lost the
equivalent of fifty dollars. Not a great deal. But too much to have
taken from me."
"Good thing you thought to mention hiding our pocketbooks," Bob told
him. "If you hadn't, we'd have been in a fine mess. Away out here in a
strange country with no money."
"And of course the railroad wouldn't have made it good," the
naturalist said disgustedly. "If I ever have another watch I suppose
I'll have to pay for it."
Ten minutes later the train was again chugging across the barren
plateau. The robber gang had vanished before a cloud of heavy dust,
perhaps not any too well satisfied with its exploit.
"I didn't know this was dangerous territory," remarked Bob Holton a
little later. "Seemed like everyone was too lazy to do anything but
loaf."
"I guess we'll find gangs anywhere we go," Mr. Wallace told him. "At
least that's my opinion, after quite a bit of traveling."
Bob recalled the bands of criminals he had met with at home and on the
Sahara Desert, and concluded that his friend was right. No matter how
much good there is in the world, there is always a certain amount of
bad.
Two hours later the Americans were surprised to see that they were
coming into a town. At the railroad station where they had boarded the
train, they had not been told that another town was between them and
the coast.
"This is Mahatos," announced the naturalist, pronouncing the name as
best he could.
"Guess everyone here wants strangers to be sure and know what town
they're in," laughed Bob. "At any rate, that sign is plenty large.
Almost hides the station."
This town was much the same as the one at which they had boarded the
train. They were glad when finally it was left behind.
"Wonder if we'll make any more stops?" mused Bob with a smile.
"Don't be surprised if we do," Mr. Wallace replied. "For all I know
there may be a dozen villages between us and the coast."
During the next two hours the train crawled along without coming to a
settlement. Then finally it passed a row of little black houses and
pulled into Cartagena, the coast city.
"All out," said Mr. Wallace, picking up the large gasoline can. "We've
reached our destination at last."
As the Americans looked about the well-built station, they found that
this was a city of considerable importance. Crowds of people,
clusters of business houses, and--what was more interesting to
them--automobiles dotted the streets.
"Where there's a motorcar there's gasoline!" cried Bob joyfully. "Now
who says we won't put fuel in the airplane tank!"
They found a filling station--or at least a place where gasoline was
sold--not far away and lost no time in having the can filled to
capacity. Then they turned back to the railroad station.
"Our business in this city is completed in five minutes, after having
made a four-hour trip here!" Bob could not help bursting out in
laughter, and Mr. Wallace joined him.
They entered the railroad station and inquired when they might board a
train back to Calamar.
Much to their displeasure, they found that it would not be possible
to do so until the next morning. The agent explained that it was
necessary to repair a portion of the track, and that until this was
completed, a run could not be made.
"Just as I expected!" groaned Bob, sitting down on the seat
hopelessly. "To save your neck you can't make time in South America."
"What will we do to while the time away?" asked the naturalist.
"Look around, I suppose. Nothing else to do."
The Americans found Cartagena very interesting. Its several industries
were throbbing with life; its people were possessed of a certain
amount of energy and ambition that was entirely absent farther inland.
The travelers were loitering along at the port, watching the steamers
arrive and depart, when Bob suddenly caught sight of something that
caused him to nudge his friend.
"Look at that fellow over there," the youth pointed out. "Isn't he an
American?"
Almost at once Mr. Wallace made a reply. "He is as sure as I'm born.
Or else"--the naturalist hesitated--"he's English."
The object of their remarks was a short, fat young man of perhaps
twenty, with twinkling eyes and a pug nose. He was dressed in khaki
outdoor clothes that stretched tightly over his protruding stomach.
Before Bob and the naturalist could make a further move, the strange
young man walked over to them, his small, deeply set eyes flashing
with merriment.
"Ain't you from the good old U. S. A., or ain't you?" he demanded,
extending a short, fat hand.
"From nowhere else!" Bob was overjoyed. "And I take it that you are?"
"Right as four chipmunks!" the little fellow said quickly. "You're
lookin' at Chubby Stevens, from Houston. And now that I've got that
off my chest, I ain't expectin' you to hold your names a secret."
Bob laughed.
"This is Mr. Wallace, and my name's Holton--Bob Holton. I'm from
Washington and my friend's from Chicago."
"A good bit of the _Estados Unidos_ is represented here, I see,"
Chubby said with a laugh. "The East, Middle West, and Southwest. I
suppose you're just lookin' around?"
"For the present, yes," Mr. Wallace returned, and then related the
events that led to their being in Cartagena.
The fat youth listened intently.
"You may be wantin' more of South America, but I don't," he said when
the naturalist had finished. "I've been here a year and have got all I
want of it. I'm longin' to see the old Gulf Building, back in Houston.
Dad's office is there. He's a lawyer."
"And you--what are you doing here, just seeing the country?" inquired
Bob.
"I'm seein' too much of it to suit me," Chubby answered. "Came here to
look around and to get rid of some fat. But doggone it, I'm fatter now
than I ever was. Guess I'll have to cut out adventurin' and take back
my old job in the office, if I want to get skinnier."
A burst of laughter followed.
"You're hopeless, all right," chuckled Bob. "I never saw a case like
yours before. Why, I weighed a hundred and eighty before I left the
States, and I'll bet I don't weigh much more than a hundred and
seventy now. If exploring would do that to me, why won't it do it to
you?"
"That's what I've been tryin' to figure out for the last year," Chubby
returned. "Funny, but I used those same figures, but I just switched
them around. Went from a hundred and seventy to a hundred and eighty.
That's away too much weight for a bozo my size to carry around."
"Why don't you try swimming back to America?" laughed Bob. "That
might do the trick."
"I've been thinkin' about that, too, only I'm afraid I couldn't take
along enough to eat."
"Oh!" Bob groaned hopelessly, and then, as he found that Chubby had
just arrived in Cartagena, suggested that they take a walk about the
city.
But as it was almost noon, Chubby suggested that they get a "bite" to
eat. Just enough, he said, to prevent them from falling from hunger.
Mr. Wallace snorted.
"I suppose it's impossible to do it," the naturalist said earnestly,
"but I'd like to take you along on our expedition into the Andes. If
you'll go, I'll guarantee that you'll get rid of twenty pounds."
"Huh? Are you tryin' to kid me?" Chubby looked up suddenly.
"Not a bit of it," Mr. Wallace answered, trying hard to suppress a
smile. "It works every time. You see, we have to get by on limited
rations and----"
"Fine! I'll go---- What was that you said? Limited rations? That means
less food, doesn't it?"
Mr. Wallace nodded.
"Then I'm afraid," began Chubby, shaking his head slowly, "that I
couldn't think of considering your proposition, however wonderful it
might be. I'm----"
"It's no use," laughed Bob. "A heavy eater doesn't make an explorer."
Bob and the naturalist were finally persuaded to follow the fat
youth's suggestion and get a "bite" to eat. Then they continued their
sightseeing.
Thus the remainder of the day passed, and they began to look about for
a place to spend the night. Chubby resolved to remain with his newly
found friends as long as the latter stayed in Cartagena. Then, he told
them, he would take a boat to the United States.
The three Americans engaged a small room in a boarding house that was
owned by a Canadian. Although it was not the utmost in comfort, they
were glad to throw themselves on the hard bed to retire.
They passed a restful night, however, awaking late the next morning.
"What shall we do until train time?" asked Bob, preparing to leave the
room.
"Look around some more, I suppose," Chubby said. "In this country you
can always find something you haven't seen before. There's a lot
that's funny, too. I've been laughing a year at the natives."
"Maybe they've been laughing at you," Bob thought to himself, but said
nothing. The fat little fellow would indeed provoke a smile from
many.
Until ten the three walked around the city, noticing everything that
was peculiar to this strange land. When finally they came back to the
railroad station, they were not a little fatigued. Especially tired
was Chubby.
"Well," Bob began, "we'll leave in fifteen minutes, if we follow the
set schedule. I suppose," he said to the fat youth, "you've definitely
made up your mind to go back home?"
"Yeah."
"Then you won't think of going with us to the Andes? We could use you,
all right."
"Sorry, but it's North America for me." Chubby spoke decisively. "This
continent here ain't fit for a gazook like me. I want to get back."
He exchanged addresses with Bob and Mr. Wallace, pocketing his
notebook just as the train steamed up to the station.
"Good-bye and good luck!" called Bob, as he stepped up into the coach.
"Write us sometime."
"Hope you lose some fat," laughed Mr. Wallace, as they started moving.
"And you'd better not try to swim to the U. S."
The train moved slowly away, leaving Chubby to stand on the platform,
still waving.
"Good fellow, all right," smiled Bob, settling himself down in the
seat. "All he needs is a little well-directed exercise."
"I'm afraid he won't get it," said the naturalist. "He'll probably be
fat as long as he lives."
The journey back to Calamar was uneventful. Bob and Mr. Wallace looked
out rather fearfully as they passed the spot where they had previously
been robbed. But no gang appeared this time to stay them.
Finally they reached their destination and left the train. They were
greatly surprised to see that no one was there to meet them.
"That's funny!" mused Bob, as he and the naturalist lugged the heavy
gasoline can in the direction of the airplane. "I thought sure Dad or
Joe would be here."
When at last they came to the airplane, Bob gave a cry of surprise.
Seated on the ground were Joe, Karl Sutman, and Mr. Holton, their
faces bleeding from numerous scratches, their clothes torn and
wrinkled.