THE PILOT'S PLOT
"Hurrah!" shouted Bob Vilett, tossing his cap up in the air.
"Don't crow too quickly, Bob," warned Dave Fearless. "We're not out of
the woods yet."
"And don't you croak," retorted the sprightly young engineer of the
_Swallow_. "Captain Broadbeam says that by this time to-morrow we will
be on our way to the Windjammers' Island."
"Yes," nodded Dave significantly, "provided they let us start."
"Eh, who?" demanded Bob.
"The governor here and the pilot, Schmitt-Schmitt, the whole crowd, who
I am persuaded are in league to delay us."
"Oh, nonsense," cried Bob airily. "What right have they to interfere
with our business?"
"What right had they to wreck the _Swallow_?" inquired Dave pertinently.
"I don't say they will dare to try to make us any further trouble, but
they have planned to, that I know, and every one of us must keep our
eyes wide open until we leave Minotaur Island far to the rear."
For all Dave's misgivings, however, he was a happy, hopeful boy. It had
been settled that they should return to the Windjammers' Island to
secure duplicates of the _Mercuria stellaticus_ which Doctor Barrell had
disposed of by accident.
"The royal old trump!" Bob Vilett had enthused. "Good-by to that
treasure if the doctor hadn't acted so promptly. But I say, Dave, what
was that bluff you and Stoodles worked up about five thousand dollars?"
"No bluff at all, as you call it," declared Dave seriously. "A hint
from that artist Adair gave me a fine suggestion. Stoodles can easily
make five, ten, yes, maybe twenty thousand dollars if he has a chance to
once more, even for a single hour, regain his position as king of the
Windjammers."
"If I didn't know you so well, Dave Fearless," said Bob gravely, "I'd
say you was romancing."
"Wait till you see the reality, Bob," advised Dave, with a confident
smile. "By the way, about this same secret of Stoodles'--I must make
some purchases in the town to-day."
Just after noon, in pursuance with this suggestion, Dave was rowed to
the town by the boatswain and two others of the crew of the _Swallow_.
When he returned he carried two heavy boxes, storing them safely under
lock and key in the purser's own closet.
The inquisitive Bob tried to pump Stoodles, but it was of no avail. Pat
looked crafty and wise, and only muttered some remarks about his royal
prerogative and the like.
By sundown the _Swallow_ had been completely repaired. She was righted
and cleaned up, and everything put in order for a run to Mercury Island.
Captain Broadbeam decided to provision up there. He was uneasy every
minute he dallied among the tricky inhabitants of Minotaur Island.
They were short-handed as to a crew, on account of the desertions of the
day previous. Several natives had applied for work, but the captain was
distrustful of them as spies.
The second mate had several times gone to the main harbor port in search
of English sailors, but there chanced to be none unemployed just then.
He did manage, however, to pick up one recruit. This was a
sickly-looking white man who called himself Tompkins. He was quiet and
industrious, and wanted to go as far as Mercury Island, he said to the
captain, who entered him regularly on the crew's list.
There had been a great ado that afternoon over maps, charts, and other
details pertaining to a long cruise. Captain Broadbeam had engaged Dave
in conversation several times about his discoveries and theories.
Both the captain and Amos Fearless now believed that Dave had reasoned
out matters concerning the stolen treasure just as they existed in fact.
They could not hope to gain any specific information from
Schmitt-Schmitt, even if they learned where he was now keeping himself
in seclusion.
"No," Captain Broadbeam had concluded, "we won't stir up affairs any
further hereabouts. We will let the people here believe that we are
going home to the United States. Schmitt-Schmitt never dreams that we
know of his living here. His suspicions will be allayed. We shall
leave a clear field and probably get to the Windjammers' Island before
he even finds a ship to go in search of the treasure."
The camp on shore was now broken up and its temporary equipment moved
back to the _Swallow_. The work on the steamer was all in shipshape
order by supper time. The men had labored diligently, and the captain
ordered an extra-fine meal.
It was an hour of typical comfort. A brisk breeze had cooled the air,
the sky was bright and clear, the surroundings picturesque and
beautiful.
Some of the sailors were singing a jaunty rollicking sea ditty. Dave
and Bob paced the after-deck full of their plans for the prospective
voyage to begin on the morrow.
"This is certainly life as she is on the ocean wave," declared Bob
enthusiastically.
"I love the smell of the brine, Bob," said Dave. "I was born breathing
it, and now the seafaring life seems to be a regular business
proposition with me."
"Good business, if you recover all that money," observed Bob.
"Look there, Bob," spoke Dave suddenly.
His companion turned. Facing the coast end of the creek a
gruesome-looking craft with black funnels, and odd and awkward of shape,
was hovering about the mouth of the little inlet.
"Hello," exclaimed Bob, "that's the government ironclad. What's she
doing here?"
"Yes," nodded Dave, taking up a telescope and looking through it,
"that's the _Chili_, the governor's special warship, sure. They say
she's a poor apology of a craft. Bought her second-hand from some
English shipyard. They are putting off a yawl."
"Going to visit us?" inquired Bob.
"It looks that way."
"More trouble?" insinuated Bob.
"More meddling and spying, more like," said Dave.
Both boys watched a natty, well-manned yawl come spinning up the creek
towards the _Swallow_.
The Chilian colors adorned the bow, indicating an official visit. A man
in military dress directed the boat. Beside him sat another of the
governor's aides in semi-official uniform.
Dave called Captain Broadbeam, and all hands on board the _Swallow_ were
now interested in the approaching yawl.
"Colonel Jose Silverado, from his excellency the governor," announced
the officer in charge of the yawl as he neared the side of the steamer.
"Coming aboard?" asked Broadbeam, in his blunt, gruff way.
"On duty, yes," responded the officer, very politely, but with a covert
grin. "The governor's physician--Dr. Monterey," added the officer,
indicating his companion.
Captain Broadbeam bowed brusquely, and with surly and suspicious mien
awaited the further pleasure of the governor's envoy.
The officer glanced keenly all about the ship. Then he took a card from
his pocket and scanned it.
"Sorry to trouble you, captain," he said, "but we have reason to believe
that you have a refugee aboard your ship."
"A refugee?" repeated Broadbeam, with a start. "Who is he?"
"Man named Tompkins."
"Why, yes," admitted the captain, "we have a new man here by that name."
"Will you kindly summon him? We have business with him. That is the
man, doctor?" inquired the officer, as the sickly-looking fellow
employed by the _Swallow_ that morning slipped out from among the crew
at a call from Captain Broadbeam.
"Ah, yes," nodded the governor's physician, eying Tompkins critically.
"My man, you are making us a whole heap of trouble, it seems."
Tompkins looked confused and ill at ease, gazing surlily at the deck.
"What's the matter with him?" demanded the captain.
"Suspect," announced the officer quickly. "Came in on a fruit boat a few
days ago. Boat infected, and this man and the others put in quarantine.
He got away. Look him over, doctor."
Monterey stepped up to Tompkins. He examined his pulse and his tongue
and tapped him on the chest. Then he said tersely:
"Strip."
Tompkins pulled off his shirt. As his naked back came into view several
of the crew curiously regarding the scene uttered quick, startled
exclamations.
Across the chest, shoulders, and arms of the suspect, the refugee, were
half-a-hundred purple-black blotches.
"Spotted fever," said the governor's physician, stepping back as if his
task was done and over with.
"Tut! tut! Too bad," observed Silverado. "Captain, I regret to say that
this is a quarantine case."
"Eh? Oh, just so," responded Broadbeam. "Well, take him to the
pesthouse, then."
The officer shook his head slowly.
"Gone too far for that," he said. "He has probably infected the others.
Let no man leave the ship," he called out loudly to some of the crew who
were moving away in the haste of fright. "I declare this ship in a
state of quarantine," pursued Silverado, in a tone of command, producing
a document bearing an official red seal. "We will send you a yellow
flag, captain, and you will remain here subject to official orders."
"Quarantined?" cried the captain, bristling up. "And for spotted fever?
See here, colonel, we have a skilled physician on board. We will move
out to sea at once and take our own risk on this matter."
"Impossible," dissented Silverado, smiling sweetly, but with the latent
malice of triumph in his undertone. "Law of the nations--no right to
imperil the general safety. No, within two weeks we will give you
clearance if no new cases break out. Meantime----"
The officer coolly affixed the sealed document in his hand to the
mainmast.
Captain Broadbeam wriggled, fumed, groaned. He was too thorough a
seaman to mistake his predicament. His brow grew dark and threatening.
"Bob, quick, come here."
With a violent jerk Dave Fearless pulled his startled chum to one side.
"Quick as you can," he spoke rapidly, "rush to the purser. Tell him to
instantly send me up a rag that has been well saturated in turpentine."
"Why, Dave----"
"No questions, no delay," ordered Dave peremptorily.
Bob shot away on his mission, Dave set his teeth, breathing hard. In a
flash a sinister suspicion had arisen in his mind. Like lightning
memory flew back to the overheard interview on the porch of the native
pilot between that crafty individual and the tricky Schmitt-Schmitt.
"He said he could delay the _Swallow_, he hinted at spots, some paint,
at washing them off," mused Dave. "Good for you. Hold on."
Dave snatched the rag soaked with turpentine from Bob Vilett's hands.
He ran forward now to where his friends were depressedly watching
Tompkins arranging his shirt to replace it.
Dave made a dash at the man. He held him firmly by one shoulder. With
his free hand he slapped the rag briskly over his bare flesh to and fro.
Dave's eyes sparkled immediately with the intensest satisfaction. One
by one the dark spots on the back of Tompkins began to disappear.
"Captain Broadbeam," cried Dave, pulling the squirming Tompkins around
into full view, "a paint-trick. This man has got no more spotted fever
than I have myself."