But of their host’s interest in the papers the little group had no
inkling. They contentedly sipped their sodas--which, to tell the truth,
despite their provider’s recommendation, were rather warm--and watched
Stanley furrowing his weather-beaten brow over the documents.
“Well,” said Ned at last, “what do you make of them?”
“Hold on a minute,” cried Stanley excitedly. Evidently he had stumbled
across something that made the papers of strange interest to him.
“Why,” he shouted with a slap of his knees the next minute, “it looks
like we’ve stumbled on somebody’s treasure trove.”
“What?”
“That’s what I said. This paper here, so far as I can make out, is the
last will and testament of this old chap, de Guzman, who signs it. It
wills all his fortune, real and personal, and that seems to be pretty
big, to a Senorita Isabelle de Guzman.”
“Guzman!” exclaimed Ned, “seems to me I’ve heard that name a lot
lately.”
“Why, yes,” put in Herc, “it’s the name of the leader of the
revolutionists. They say he’s the worst enemy Americans down here have.”
“Hum,” pondered Ned, “maybe this girl is some relation.”
“Maybe; there’s a good catch for you, Ned,” laughed Stanley, “for this
will disposes of an estate worth almost a million, and that’s a lot of
money down here.”
“Or any other place,” grinned Herc, clinking what remained of his last
month’s pay.
“Well, what are we going to do about it?” inquired Ned.
“Just hang on to it for a while,” counseled Stanley, handing back
the paper. “I’d advise you to consult with Lieutenant Timmons or the
American consul, and then we can learn better what to do about it.
After all, the Guzman named here may be down in the Argentine for all
we know. It’s a common enough name in South America.”
“That’s so,” agreed Ned, “but the ship hailed from this port, or so her
papers said.”
“That’s right,” agreed Stanley, “but what was old de Guzman, supposing
he is, or was, worth a million, doing in her galley?”
“That’s a poser,” cried Herc.
“It’s like a scattered Chinese puzzle,” muttered Ned. “I wonder if we
shall ever be able to put it together. Hello!”
He started to his feet suddenly and ran rapidly round the table to the
other side of the arbor.
“What are you doing--chasing yourself round the block for exercise?”
demanded the astonished Herc.
“No, but I’m almost certain that I saw some one dodge behind those
palms yonder as I jumped up. Just before that I heard a rustling in the
creepers behind you.”
“Somebody rubbering?”
“That’s what it looked like. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“I do,” put in Stanley, rubbing his grizzled chin.
“What, then?”
“That was a mighty interesting conversation we were just having.”
“To whom but ourselves?”
“To any one named Guzman, or kin to the Guzmans,” pronounced Stanley
gravely.
“By hookey, you’re right! Who do you think it could have been?”
“I haven’t got any idea. Maybe our friend, the handsome waiter,”
suggested Herc.
“I wonder,” mused Ned, but at that instant, as if to contradict his
thoughts, the proprietor of the Villa Espenza appeared from quite
another direction, balancing his tray gracefully and humming a song.
“Is there any one but ourselves here to-day?” inquired Ned, as he came
up.
“Alas! no,” was the reply, “business is very bad. You are the
only customers we have had for some days. The revolution has put
business--what you Americans call ‘to the bad.’”
After ordering and drinking more sodas the boys and their older
companion rose and, bidding farewell to the bowing proprietor and
promising to call again, started for the ship.
“Say, that fellow reminds me of somebody, and I can’t think who,” said
Ned, as they set off down the hillside.
“Same here,” murmured Herc. “I have it!” he exclaimed suddenly, “that
chap in Brooklyn--the fellow who wanted to know what was going on on
board the _Beale_.”
“Oh, that dago,” grunted Stanley, who was acquainted with the incident,
which the boys had related to him. “Somehow I’ve got an idea you’ll
hear more of that chap.”
“I hope not,” responded Ned. “I wouldn’t pick him out for a constant
companion.”
On their way through the water-front portion of the town the three
passed a small shop in which post-cards were displayed for sale.
“Let’s go in and get some,” suggested Ned.
“All right,” laughed Herc, “I see your money’s burning a hole in your
pocket.”
“Well, it’s only the interest on what we’ve got in the navy bank at
four per cent.,” Ned reminded him.
They all bought several post-cards, and were leaving the store when
Herc’s eye was attracted by something. It was a picture post-card,
adorned by a colored view of the Villa Espenza, the place they had just
left.
“Might as well take that, too,” said Herc, taking it from the rack.
“Zan-go!” he cried suddenly, “look here--no, here down in this
corner--what does that printing say?”
“‘The Villa Espenza, Bernardo Guzman, Proprietor,’” read Ned. “Wow!”
“And he overheard that whole talk of ours, I’ll bet a lemon!” cried
Herc.
“Right you are,” responded Stanley gloomily. “And his name’s Guzman--no
wonder he was interested.”
To avoid attracting attention from the owner of the store, who was
gazing curiously at them, the boys bought the post-card and left the
place.
“See the way that fellow in there was glaring at us?” grinned Herc.
“They sure do love Americans down here--not!”
“That’s a good way to tell a revolutionary sympathizer,” said
Stanley. “The government party are all friendly to Americans. They
realize the good they have done the country and the capital they have
brought into it. The revolutionists, on the other hand, all want to
see all foreigners out of here, and be able to run the place for
themselves--and their pockets.”
“I don’t see why our government should interfere,” said Herc, as they
made their way down the street, pursued sometimes by approving and
sometimes by unfriendly glances.
“She’s not interfering,” rejoined Stanley; “that’s just it. If she
could she’d mighty soon show these revolutionists where they stand. Not
that the United States doesn’t believe in every one having a square
deal, mind you, but at Washington they think these things should be
decided by the ballot box, and not by fighting and squabbling.”
By this time they had drawn near the wharf, had turned and were headed
for it, when a sudden chorus of shouts and yells rapidly drawing nearer
attracted their attention. At the same instant round the corner of one
of the dark, narrow streets leading to the water front burst a strange
group--or rather, from their exciting actions and cries, mob would be a
better term.
“Hullo!” shouted Ned suddenly, “there’s some of our fellows among them.”
“By the great turret gun, so there are!” echoed Stanley, starting
forward.
In the midst of a howling, yelling crowd of townsmen there had suddenly
flashed into view for an instant the white uniform of a man-of-war’s
man. Evidently he was having a desperate fight against heavy odds. As
the Dreadnought Boys and Stanley rushed toward the scene of action,
they could see stones and filth, both of which were plentiful in the
streets, flying from all directions at the Yankee sailor.
“It’s Gifford!” shouted Herc, recognizing the centre of the group, who,
though putting up a plucky fight, was overwhelmingly outnumbered.
“Hey! Gifford, stick it out. _Beales_ to the rescue!” yelled Ned,
carried away by indignation and forgetting that it would have been
better judgment to try diplomatic methods first.
Echoing the cry, his two companions followed him in a furious dash into
the crowd. Before the jackies’ sturdy arms the South Americans fell
right and left like ninepins; but they, taken by surprise though they
were, soon recovered their wits, and a hail of stones poured in on the
boys and Gifford, to whose side they had fought their way.
“Quick, Gifford, get your back against the wall. We don’t want them
attacking us from behind!” exclaimed Ned.
As the four sailors braced their backs against the corner building
and stood, with flashing eyes, waiting the fresh onslaught of the
Costavezans, a stone whizzed through the air.
Crack!
Before Ned had time to dodge it, the missile grazed his cheek. It
fortunately only bruised the skin, but it set the blood to flowing. In
a second, as if it had been a signal to the mob, the air became full of
rocks. The Americans had to hold their arms over their heads to prevent
being seriously injured.
“Come on!” exclaimed Ned, as the mob paused for a second for fresh
ammunition, “a charge is the only thing for it.”
“When I say,--go,” seconded Stanley.
Suddenly, just as a squat little Costavezan, with a gayly colored
serape wrapped round his dirty white clothes, raised an arm to hurl
another stone, the word came.
“Charge!”
If an earthquake had suddenly struck that crowd, they could not have
scattered more precipitately. Before the onrush of the Americans they
parted like a flock of sheep when an angry collie runs through them.
With shrieks and yells and imprecations, they fled right and left,
many of them bearing what would later become very promising black eyes.
[Illustration: “Charge!” Before the onrush of the Americans they parted
like a flock of sheep.]
All at once, just in front of Ned, there came a flash. He realized
instantly what it was--a knife! With a rapid up-sweep of his elbow,
more instinctive than anything else, he met the descending arm of the
man who wielded it.
As the two arms clashed together the knife went flying out of its
owner’s hand and fell with a steely ring at the other side of the
street. As it did so the Dreadnought Boy’s fist shot out and collided
with the Costavezan’s face with a “squdgy” sound. The fellow was lifted
clean off his feet by the blow, and came down to the ground after
twirling once round completely. As he fell he collapsed in a senseless
heap.
“A sleep punch!” shouted Gifford, whose face was cut in a dozen places.
What the mob in its fury might next have attempted will never be known,
for at that moment Gifford’s friends, who had become separated from him
before the row started, hove in sight. With a shout they charged, as
had the boys just before, at the sight of the white uniforms in the
midst of a hostile crowd. It was the end. With shouts of hate and fury,
but prudently taking to their heels nevertheless, the mob scattered.
“How did it all happen?” asked Ned, as Gifford began mopping his face.
Of the mob only a few curious small boys remained.
“Why, I saw a fellow pulling down an American flag from a small photo
gallery up the street,” said Gifford, “and I just naturally waded in.”
“And----” said Ned, a smile hovering about his lips.
“Told him not to.”
“What happened then?”
“Why, then the nasty dago spat at me. I punched him, and before I knew
it the whole mob was around me. I didn’t mind the stones so much, but,
oh! those rotten bananas and those ancient eggs--phew!”
“Well, it’s a good thing no bones are broken,” said Ned. “Come on,
let’s get down to the boat before those fellows gather again. You want
to get cleaned up.”
“You haven’t much on you,” grinned Gifford, looking at Ned’s face,
blood-stained, where the stone had struck him.
Ned burst into a laugh.
“I guess not. Say, fellows, we’d better not say anything to the
lieutenant about this. He might think we’d been rioting or something.”
“I guess you’re right,” agreed Stanley, “but in that case we want to
look all right when he shows up.”
With his handkerchief dipped in sea-water Ned soon removed the dirt and
grime from his face, as did the others. When the lieutenant, therefore,
came down to the boat, he found a demure-looking crew seated, ready to
put the oars over at the word of command. Perhaps he may have noticed
one or two angry-looking bruises on the men’s faces, but naval officers
learn not to see a great deal--sometimes.
“The feeling in the town is distinctly anti-American, the consul tells
me,” Ned, who pulled stroke, heard Lieutenant Timmons remark to Ensign
Conkling, as they gave way.
“But about the revolutionists’ arms, sir?”
“That’s the mystery. They are getting them somehow, and plenty of them.
I wish we could solve it.”
“So do I,” thought Ned to himself, as he bent to his oar. He resolved
as he tugged away that if he got the chance, the delivery of the
munitions of war to the enemies of his country would cease abruptly.