ON TRIAL AS A SPY
The lights of Mexico City were a welcome sight to the young American.
Never had a train ride seemed so long. The Secret Service guard refused
to allow him conversation with his fellow-passengers and as the
circumstances were too strained to permit his reading with any degree
of interest, Jack had little to do but gaze out of the window and think
over his misfortune. The moment the train rolled into the station, the
detective hustled Jack to the military barracks in the heart of the city.
It was almost midnight when they were challenged by the white-clad sentry
before the heavy double gates of the enclosure. Jack’s captor answered
with a few brief sentences in Spanish and the gates were unbarred to
let them pass. Inside another sentry located the officer on duty and he
and the Secret Service man held a short conference. A few moments later
two privates were summoned. They took charge of the young Vermonter,
escorting him toward the far end of the long barracks buildings, where he
was locked into a stuffy unlighted cell in the guardhouse.
[Illustration: “To Jack it all seemed like a horrible nightmare”]
To Jack it all seemed like a horrible nightmare. Here he was a prisoner
in the capital of a strange country. He had no knowledge of the language
spoken by those with whom he had to deal, nor did he have friends or
relatives within several thousand miles. His only hope in being delivered
from his rather serious position lay in the possibility of calling Harry
Ryder to Mexico City so that he could identify his drawings and explain
how they came to be in the possession of some other person. But Jack was
not altogether certain that this could be done, or if it could be done,
whether his captors would be willing to take that much trouble to prove
him innocent. At first he had taken the arrest more or less as a joke,
but as he reviewed the various stories he had heard of the Mexican idea
of justice, he became very much worried. He knew the punishment meted
out to a spy and he wondered whether that would be his end. With such
thought parading through his brain, he had little chance for sleep that
night. Indeed he heard a big clock beyond the barracks walls toll every
hour from midnight until dawn.
At seven o’clock breakfast was brought to him by an uncouth looking
private in a dirty white uniform. The meal consisted of _tortillas_, made
of corn flour, and _frijoles_, which are black Mexican beans. There was
not even a cup of water with which to wash it down. Though Jack had had
very little to eat the day before, the sight of the mess brought by the
soldier sickened him, and he put the tin plate aside untouched.
An hour later an officer with four privates came into the guardhouse
and unlocked the door of Jack’s cell. The lad observed that each of the
soldiers carried a shining rifle at port arms and the officer entered
with sword drawn. At this he became speechless with horror. Was this
a firing squad! Was he going to be executed without the formality of
trial? He was almost too weak to walk when the officer spoke to him in
Spanish and motioned for him to come forth. Silently the soldiers formed
behind him and urged him forward out of the guardhouse and on to the
parade grounds.
His heart-breaking suspense ended there, however, when he noted the
direction in which the soldiers turned him. Instead of marching out into
the center of the enclosure they headed directly for a building that
looked very much like a large dwelling. To the young American it appeared
as if it might be the home of the commander of the barracks. He hoped it
was, for in that case he could be certain of some form of trial at least,
during which he could doubtlessly explain about the drawings.
The boy was ushered before the austere old General by the officer alone,
the guard remaining on duty before the door. The commander was seated
at a desk in the center of a well-lighted, cheerful-looking room, a
uniformed orderly at his elbow. The other occupant of the room was
the Secret Service man who had arrested him the day before. Both were
poring over the drawings of the lightning arrester which the detective
had confiscated, while on the corner of the officer’s desk was Jack’s
traveling bag which had been forced open, possibly for the purpose of
finding other evidence against him.
The detective and the officer looked up as the youth entered. Jack’s
officer escort saluted and retired to the rear of the room, leaving the
lad standing in the middle of the floor alone. The detective cleared his
throat and spoke.
“I shall be what you call the interpreter. I spik Mexican, I spik also
Inglis. Shall you be content?” he queried.
“I will be contented if you will believe what I tell you,” said Jack
rather curtly. “It is ridiculous to arrest me as a spy. I am an American
citizen and those drawings are not war plans or details of a ‘war
machine,’ as you suggested yesterday. They are plans for an electrical
appliance that is to be built by Mr. Harry Ryder, in order to give better
light to Mexico City.”
The detective looked at him with doubt plainly written on his
countenance. Then he turned and in rapid fire sentences imparted Jack’s
story to the general. The officer also appeared to doubt the youth’s
statement. He was silent for a few moments, however, while he pondered
the situation; then through the interpreter he asked:
“Why does Mr. Ryder trust his valuable papers to you?”
“Because he didn’t care to trust your unreliable mail service,” said Jack
vindictively.
The wrath of the detective was stirred immediately.
“Mexico is a great country. She has a dependability of mail service. You
are a gringo who spies for the revolution. Do not tell me not. I saw you
with my own eyes pass some secret something to a sympathizer in the plaza
at Vera Cruz. Ah, but he are arrest already and your secret is now known.”
Jack was startled at first. Then as he recalled the whining beggar in the
plaza he laughed heartily.
“Why, he was only a beggar. I gave him a few coins. You are making a
mountain out of a mole hill, Mr. Detective. Why not have done with all
the foolishness by summoning Mr. Ryder from Necaxa? He will prove that
the drawings are his and that I am no spy.”
The General and the Secret Service man debated this suggestion for some
time. Evidently they thought it a good idea, for the officer presently
began to use the telephone at his elbow while the detective talked to
Jack.
“We will call Señor Ryder. General Rodriguez say the great electrical
engineer is in Mexico City now. He spoke with him in the café last
evening. He will come maybe, and then if you can prove, you must prove.
If you don’t, you will be shot to-morrow.”
The commander ceased his telephoning after a few moments and spoke to the
interpreter, who, turning to Jack, announced:
“Señor Ryder is at the office of the Compania de Luz y Fuerza Montriz in
Calle de Tetuan. He will be here quite soon.”
The General and the Secret Service agent spent the next fifteen minutes
smoking numerous black paper cigarettes and talking quite excitedly to
each other while Jack was left standing in the center of the room. The
waiting was ages long for the American. But finally there sounded the
tooting of an automobile horn and roar of a motor from the parade ground
outside and a moment later a tall fine-looking American, clad in linen
trousers and soft shirt, entered the commander’s office.
Jack stepped forward instantly and held out his hand.
“Mr. Ryder,” he said, “I am John Strawbridge, Dr. Moorland’s messenger.
I have been arrested and am being held as a spy because I happened to
have your drawings in my wallet. You see it excited the curiosity of the
customs inspector yesterday and the result is I am in the hands of the
Mexican Secret Service to-day. I sincerely hope that you can get me out
of this rather disagreeable position; otherwise I’ll furnish the target
for a firing squad to-morrow morning.”
“Why, this is ridiculous,” said Mr. Ryder as he saw his drawings spread
out before General Rodriguez. Then he began to talk in Spanish to the
natives. A few moments conversation was all that was necessary to
convince the Secret Service agent and the officer that a serious mistake
had been made, and each was profuse in his apologies to Jack Straw.
“It is a great regret that I arrest so honorable friend of Señor Ryder,”
said the detective with a sweeping bow. “I hope you will pardon, Señor.”
And Jack showed the sort of stuff Americans are made of by stepping
forward and warmly shaking hands with the Secret Service agent and the
commander.