“You are sure of this, then?”
The voice of Lieutenant Timmons held a tone of deep interest as he
gazed at the three blue-jackets standing bareheaded before him in his
cabin. At Ned’s request Stanley and Herc Taylor had been included in
the summons aft.
“Absolutely, sir,” came Stanley’s deep voice. “I’d know the butt of a
Crag-Allen machine gun a block away, sir, and then the weight of those
cases----”
“I think there is little doubt that you have stumbled upon the
solution of the problem. The thing is to head them off. Have you any
suggestions, Mr. Stark?”
The officer turned to the young midshipman, the same whom Ned had saved
on the night the man was washed overboard.
“Why, sir, Stanley and his shipmates have acted so cleverly in this
that it might be well to hear if they have anything to say,” he
rejoined.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Stanley, thus encouraged, “but I think
that it’s evident they mean to wait till dark and then take the guns
down the coast somewhere.”
“By George! I believe you are right,” burst out Lieutenant Timmons.
“Most probably they are destined for the northern army of the
revolutionists, which, I hear, is marching down the coast to join the
main column. They gave the government troops an almighty licking, I
understand, and it is doubtful if the latter can rally in time to join
with the defending forces at Boca del Sierras.”
“But if they can, sir?” inquired the midshipman.
“In that case the government troops might be strong enough to defend
the place. Otherwise, that is, if a junction between the two bodies
cannot be effected, the revolutionists bid fair to sweep all before
them. But go on, Stanley. What were you about to suggest?”
“I thought, sir, if we could take the gas launch and make after them
quiet like, we might find out where the arms were landed, or at least
head ’em off.”
“A good plan, my man, but suppose they have several armed men on board?
You know, in the delicate situation the United States occupies in this
matter, we cannot afford to risk a fight.”
“No, sir,” broke in Ned, “but supposing we borrowed the consul’s
launch. That wouldn’t be identified with the _Beale_, and we could head
them off, perhaps, without any one being the wiser as to who it was.”
“The very thing,” heartily agreed Lieutenant Timmons, “only mind you,
no adventures like those you had in Cuba.”
“Oh, no, sir,” laughed Ned, flushing up.
“Very well, then, that will do. You may go forward, and be subject to
call. I will see to it that the launch is here--at about dusk, eh,
Stark?”
“Yes, sir, I think that would be the best time,” rejoined the middy.
“Well, you are to be in command of the expedition----”
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Stark, blushing under the honor. “Thank you,
sir,” he broke out.
“Don’t thank me, Stark. After all, it’s more hard work than honor, for
it cannot be mentioned in the dispatches. I shall rely on you, however,
to bring back the information we require as to the destination of the
arms, and if you can do it without detection the arms themselves. Will
you require any more men than Strong, Taylor and Stanley?”
“No, sir, the fewer the better, but we ought to have some one to handle
the engine.”
“That’s right. I will get the engineer to detail a man to look after
that.”
How that afternoon passed the boys could never tell. If ever hours were
leaden-footed, those were. The consul’s launch came off during the
afternoon, but immediately returned. During the time the diplomat had
been on board, however, the plan had been explained to him, and he
had enthusiastically placed his craft at the disposal of the _Beale’s_
commander.
It grew toward dusk at last, however, and the boys ceased their
impatient pacing of their cramped quarters. As for Stanley, he was
as cool as the proverbial cucumber. Like several of the other men,
he had borrowed a fish-line and was bobbing for red snappers most of
the afternoon. Quite a number of lines were cast overboard from the
_Beale_, and, though it cannot be said that much fish was caught, a
wonderful amount of patience was displayed, so a good end was served
after all.
The sun was disappearing behind the high mountains, beyond which a part
of the insurgent forces were supposedly encamped, when Ned, who was
standing forward gazing at the sunset, gave an exclamation.
“There’s a picture!” he said.
Tacking rapidly toward them across the glowing water was a small
fishing craft. She moved swiftly as the evening breeze filled her
single leg-o’-mutton sail.
“She’s coming out to us,” cried Herc suddenly.
Indeed, it looked like it, and presently it was seen that Herc was
right. The little craft drew almost alongside the grim-looking
destroyer before the figure at her helm hauled his sheet and put her
about. As she shot away on the other tack there was a sudden splash
from the _Beale’s_ side, and a man went floundering into the water.
“Man overboard!” went up a cry, but it was instantly stilled, as it was
seen that whoever it was in the water he was in no need of assistance.
He could swim like a fish. A few strokes brought him once more to
the side of the _Beale_, and he was helped up. He stood laughing and
shaking himself on the deck a minute later, and the boys, who were in
the crowd that gathered about him, heard the word passed among the crew.
“It’s Jim Prentice, one of the engineer’s bunch.”
“How’d it happen, Jim?” asked somebody.
“Dunno. I was fishing and watching that little boat when all of a
sudden I slipped,” said the man readily.
“Recognize that chap?” asked Ned in a whisper, of Herc.
“Yes, it’s the fellow that gave us such a sizing up the other day.”
“That’s it. Take a little stroll this way, I’ve something to tell you.”
Ned seized the mystified Herc’s arm and led him away from the group
clustered about Prentice, laughing and condoling with him.
“What do you suppose that fellow went overboard for?” asked Ned
mysteriously, as soon as they were out of earshot of the men.
“That’s a bright question,--because he couldn’t help it, I suppose.”
“Not he. He went over for a purpose.”
“For a purpose?” echoed Herc, looking sharply at Ned.
“That’s what I said.”
“Oh, for a swim, I suppose you mean--an unofficial swim.”
“No, something quite different from that.” Ned sunk his voice. “He
went overboard to pick up a bit of paper that fellow in the boat threw
out.”
Had a bombshell exploded at Herc’s feet, he could not have looked more
astonished.
“Your mind works quicker than mine, I guess, Ned,” he said, “just as
your eyesight is quicker. I didn’t see any bit of paper, but supposing
there was?”
“Well, it may mean nothing. The fellow may have a sweetheart ashore who
chooses this means of sending him a message, and then again----”
“It might all have been an accident.”
“We may have a traitor on board,” resumed Ned, not paying any attention
to the interruption.
But whatever Ned’s suspicions were, the call to supper prevented
further voicing of them. In the midst of the noise and laughter and
bandying of jokes that goes on about the jackies’ table, it was, of
course, impossible to exchange any more conversation on the subject
on their minds. Soon after the meal, when darkness had fallen, a
messenger from the commander of the _Beale_ slipped unobtrusively up to
Ned.
“Wanted aft, Strong,” he said, with a significant look.
Ned readily comprehended. The consulate launch must have come off
while they were at supper. Hastily he summoned his friends. Without
attracting any attention from the chatting, laughing tars, the trio
slipped past the funnels and the conning tower, till they stood at the
edge of the quarterdeck awning. Here they stopped respectfully. Naval
etiquette did not allow them farther unless by command or permission.
Ned, however, with a sidewise glance, had noted that the dark outline
of the consulate launch, a craft about thirty feet long, lay at the
starboard gangway. The consul himself, a tall, dignified-looking man,
with gray hair and goatee, sat in an easy chair talking to Lieutenant
Timmons and his officers. The incandescents, which had been rigged
under the awning, threw a sharp light on his features.
“Ready, sir!” said Ned, saluting, as did the others.
“All right, Strong,” rejoined the commander of the _Beale_. “Your men
are here, Stark,” he said, as the middy came forward.
“You men will need arms,” said Stark. Diving below, he presently came
up with three heavy caliber, service revolvers. He gave one to each of
his followers.
A few minutes later they were in the launch and ready to start. It had
been decided at the last moment that, instead of putting off directly
from the _Beale_ when the gun-running launch hove in sight, it would be
better to lie off one of the points at the entrance of the harbor, and
then follow her up at a discreet distance. The boys were in ignorance
of this, of course, but the man who crouched over the motor-boat’s
engines evidently had his orders.
The midshipman, who sat up forward at the wheel, gave the bell handle
two sharp jerks--the sign to get under way.
Chug-chug!
The motor instantly took up its tune, and, with the muffler almost
silencing the noises of the motor’s explosions, they glided into the
velvety darkness illumined only by the bright tropical stars. The
headland, in the shadow of which they were to wait, was soon reached,
and then followed a long period of silence and watching.
At last, however, out of the blackness lying harborward, came a
motor-boat’s sharp cough. It grew rapidly nearer and louder.
“Here they come!” breathed Stark, in a low, tense voice.