IN THE HANDS OF THE SECRET SERVICE
Although the train for Mexico City was due to leave Vera Cruz promptly on
the hour, it was forty minutes late when it started to get underway. This
slight disregard for schedule did not surprise Jack, however, for already
he had discovered this natural failing of all Mexicans. The Pullman
coach in which he had secured accommodations was fortunately one of a
number of American-built cars that had been taken over the Rio Grande
and into Mexico from time to time during the extension of the national
railroad system, and in consequence the young traveler did not suffer
much from lack of comfort. Before he had traveled very long Jack realized
that he had embarked upon the most interesting portion of his journey
to the power plant. The train sped along through the most wonderful
country that he had ever seen. Now he was racing through deep ravines
with perpendicular walls of rock rising so high that daylight was almost
shut out and perpetual twilight reigned. From this he was whisked into
broad valleys with mountain ranges towering on either side. And often
the tracks led high up on the sides of one of these mountains, revealing
a broad panorama of tropical country, with Popocatepetl, the monstrous
volcano, in the distance.
Now and then Indian villages were passed and Jack caught fleeting
glimpses of a group of thatched huts and adobes and crowds of naked
children and half-clad men and women who stared stolidly at the train
as it shot by. Occasionally a stop was made at some large town and
picturesque groups of Mexicans gathered at the station to stare in
wonderment at the passengers. Always these groups were made up entirely
of men, for the women had far too much to do to waste time idly watching
trains. These men were a motley throng, all wearing high-crowned,
broad-brimmed hats and gaily colored _serapes_, or blankets, which
they hugged close about them in spite of the heat. The better dressed
wore trousers that were extremely tight fitting. The others, however,
wore frayed and tattered garments made of everything from sail cloth to
sacking and ungainly sandals bound across the arch and around the ankle
with long buckskin thongs. Not a shoe did Jack discover among them.
What with the scenery and the picturesque towns and villages, Jack’s
interest was kept out of doors for several hours. But eventually even
the novelty of traveling through a foreign country grew wearisome and he
turned his attention to a book that he had stowed away in his traveling
bag. He had not been reading long, however, before he began to be
troubled by a strange presentiment that some one was watching him. Quite
involuntarily he glanced up from the page he was perusing and looked into
the bead-like eyes of a native who was occupying a Pullman chair at the
other end of the car. Instantly the Mexican’s eyes were turned away. The
lad became suspicious immediately, for he recognized the man as the one
who had watched him in the plaza at Vera Cruz. There was no mistaking
him, for he wore the same big-brimmed sombrero with its curious beadwork
binding.
Jack instinctively put his hand to the pocket where he kept the wallet
of drawings, for he had a vague feeling that this man was interested in
them, though he really could not understand why he should be since they
had not been exhibited at any place save in the custom house. Then he
suddenly recalled the young American interpreter’s warning that he would
probably be closely watched at all times! Was this man shadowing him?
Had he been trailed all through Vera Cruz? The thought angered him and
he glanced at the Mexican again. That individual, however, had removed
his big hat and was gazing calmly out of the window, as if he did not
know that Jack Straw ever existed, and his unconcerned manner caused the
young traveler to wonder whether this second meeting was only a strange
coincidence after all.
Jack tried to resume his reading, but it was not long before his mind
was far from the printed pages and busy evolving a plan whereby he could
become certain as to whether the tall Mexican was watching him or not.
Soon the train began to slow down for another stop and on the instant the
American got an idea. He waited until the train came to a full stop; then
as if he suddenly realized that this was the station he wanted to get off
at he jumped up and seizing his traveling bag bolted for the door.
It was all done so quickly that the Mexican was taken completely off his
guard. When he saw the boy rush for the door he gave one hurried glance
up the car, then followed as fast as he could. By the time he reached the
door, however, Jack had alighted and was racing along the side of the car
to the rear platform where he swung aboard and returned to the seat he
had just vacated. He had successfully lost the Mexican for five minutes
at least, for the man searched up and down the station platform and in
all directions trying to locate the Vermonter. Then, purely by accident,
he looked toward the train again and saw Jack smiling at him from one of
the windows.
It was evident from his distorted features that the native was thoroughly
enraged. He plunged for the train which was already underway and swinging
aboard hurried into the Pullman car, brandishing a huge army revolver as
he advanced. Several women passengers screamed and every man in the car
put his hands above his head when they saw the angered native striding
down the aisle. They were certain that the train had been boarded by
highwaymen and that they were about to be asked to turn over their
valuables. But the Mexican disregarded the disturbance he had caused. He
put the muzzle of the ugly revolver against Jack’s breast and hissed:
“You, gringo, you are arrest for a spy of the revolution. Not holler.”
But Jack did not intend to “holler.” With the hard nose of the gun
pressed against his ribs he did not hesitate to put his hands above his
head as the other men in the train had done.
“You are arrest by that great Secret Service of Mexico,” said the native
very impressively; “give me up your guns.”
“I have no guns that are dangerous,” said Jack Straw, and he spoke the
truth, for the big Colt that his father had given him reposed unloaded
and quite harmless in the bottom of his valise. But the Mexican refused
to believe him.
“Give up or I make of you an examination,” he said, trying hard to be
courteous in spite of his outraged temper.
“Search,” said Jack, “only let me put my arms down.” And the detective
forthwith began to go through his pockets while the other passengers,
many of whom were Americans, gathered around and looked on. One of the
first things that the detective did was to confiscate the yellow wallet
with the drawings. His eyes sparkled with pleasure when he opened it.
“Ah! Señor, it is for these you will be shot, maybe. You are a bad
gringo,” he said with an evil chuckle.
“They are only working drawings of a machine,” protested Jack.
“Yes, a war machine, I think,” said the Mexican, continuing his search
for firearms. Finally, after finding nothing more formidable than a
jack-knife, the officer put his own revolver away and informed Jack that
he might sit down and be at ease until they reached Mexico City. He
warned the boy, however, that any attempt on his part to leave the car
would call forth the huge revolver again, and since Jack had no desire
to learn how good a marksman the Mexican was he refrained from rising
from his Pullman chair for the rest of the afternoon. The Secret Service
man sat directly opposite, his dark eyes never moving from the lad from
Drueryville.