“You are stupid!” the stranger accused. “Don’t you know nitro is heavier than water? It would sink to the bottom and form a layer.”
“Notify the police,” advised Jack. “They’ll know what to do.”
The workman glared at him. “Sure,” he said sarcastically, “they’ll know what to do all right! You kids give me a pain! You never should have come poking around here. That stuff would have been okay if you’d left it alone. Now I’m in a spot.”
“How’d you get the nitro in the first place?” Willie questioned.
The stranger did not reply. His face twisted with worry, he ordered the Scouts to start walking toward the roadway.
“Where you taking us?” Jack asked, moving as slowly as he dared.
He could sense the man’s uncertainty, and was stalling for time. If only Ken, War, Bob and the police would arrive!
“I don’t know what to do with you,” the stranger admitted. “If I let you go, you’d blab about the nitro. I’ve got to move it, but where, I don’t know.”
“Why don’t we talk this over?” Jack suggested. “Maybe we can work out something.”
“Yeah? What? I don’t trust you.” Scowling, the stranger paused as he came to a cemetery bench. He sat down, but kept his automatic trained on the two Scouts who remained standing.
“If you’re afraid to go to the police, why not let us do it for you?” Jack proposed.
The workman looked momentarily interested, but shook his head. “No soap. The nitro would be traced to me. Besides, I may have a use for that soup later on. It’s valuable stuff—too valuable to be thrown away.”
“Dangerous though,” Jack suggested, lowering his hands.
“Keep ’em up,” the stranger ordered sharply. “No tricks!”
Jack continued to talk, though he scarcely heard his own words. From the roadway he had caught the hum of a motor. A police car perhaps? If so, the officers had avoided using a siren, which would have been a dead give-away.
“What was that?” the stranger asked suspiciously.
“Car going through the cemetery,” Jack answered with a shrug. “You sure are nervous.”
“You would be too, if you’d nursemaided ten pints of nitro for six months! I can’t sleep nights for worrying about it.”
“So that’s why you’ve kept coming back here so often?” Willie inquired. He could hear a slight rustle of leaves and thought that someone must be moving afoot through the trees.
“Sure,” the man admitted. “I had to make certain the stuff was okay. It would have been too, if you kids had kept away. I could wring your necks!”
“What are you going to do with us?” Jack asked, trying desperately to hold the full attention of the stranger.
By this time, he and Willie had glimpsed Ken, War and Bob walking near the fence. The man with the revolver could not see them, for he sat with his back to the approaching Scouts.
Jack and Willie were certain a car had stopped closeby in the cemetery, but there was no sign of the police. They were worried too, lest at any moment their three chums might betray their presence. If only they would catch on to the situation!
Deliberately, Jack began to argue in a louder tone, hoping his voice would carry to the fence. To his relief, he saw Ken turn to gaze toward the bench. Quickly, he shifted his own gaze lest his intense interest alert his captor.
Moments passed. Then as Jack and Willie remained with hands raised, they heard a soft rustle of leaves. Their friends were stealing up behind the park bench!
“I’ve got to take you with me,” the stranger suddenly announced, his mind made up. “Get going! To the car!”
Jack and Willie turned as if to obey. At that moment, as their captor started to arise, the other Scouts closed in from behind.
Before the man could resist, they overturned the bench, toppling him to the ground. The automatic was discharged harmlessly into the air. Jack seized and held the man’s arm.
Overwhelmed by numbers, the stranger found himself powerless to move. Ken, Bob and Willie used the overturned bench to hold him pinned to the earth.
“Quick! Get the police!” Ken urged. “Their car is down the road. We came on ahead.”
But there was no need for anyone to seek assistance. The revolver shot had brought the police on a run. A moment later they came up to take charge of the captive. Unprotesting, he allowed them to lock handcuffs onto his wrists.
“Good work, boys!” one of the officers praised. “Do you know this guy you’ve nailed?”
The Scouts admitted that they had no idea as to his identity.
“He’s Blackie Williams, an expert safe cracker,” they were informed. “He did a long stretch at the state penitentiary. Got out about a year and a half ago.”
The prisoner was escorted to the police car. While he remained under guard, one of the officers went with the Scouts to inspect the cache of nitro-glycerin.
“This is the real stuff,” the policeman announced after a brief examination of the liquid in the kettle. “There’s enough here to blow up the cemetery.”
“Still active?” Jack questioned.
“It probably is. This stuff is too tricky to be moved by anyone except a nitro expert. You Scouts were lucky you weren’t blown to bits.”
“I guess so,” Jack admitted ruefully. “We had no idea what was in the kettle when we started digging. Luckily, our spade never jarred the container.”
“It’s going to be a job getting rid of that nitro,” the policeman said. “The important thing now is to bottle up this area, so no one gets hurt. You boys willing to help?”
“Sure,” Warwick agreed eagerly.
“Then post yourselves along the cemetery road,” the policeman instructed. “Don’t let anyone in. If that nitro should let loose, this whole place would go up in one loud bang!”
Within an hour after the capture of Blackie Williams, the Belton newspapers carried front page accounts of the nitro-glycerin discovery. Photographers, reporters and hundreds of curious persons swarmed to the cemetery area.
Working under direction of police, the Scouts guarded entrance roads until relieved of duty. Reporters interviewed them and photographers insisted that they pose for action shots. To their intense embarrassment, townsfolk chose to regard them as heroes.
“Shucks, we didn’t do much,” Ken protested. “If anyone deserves credit, Jack does. He had that first hunch about Blackie Williams.”
A policeman informed the Scouts that an out-of-town explosives expert would be called in to set off a controlled explosion.
“We’ve talked to Blackie, and there’s no question the stuff is active,” he told Jack. “Too dangerous to move. It seems he stole it seven months ago from an explosives plant. Once he got his hands on it, he realized he had more than he could use in twenty years. So he had to get rid of it.”
The Scouts were on hand the following day when a nitro-glycerin expert arrived to inspect the kettle of fluid. He told police the explosive could not be safely moved and that it must be detonated. Preparations went forward for the big blast.
Under the direction of Bradley Graham, an expert, sod and screenings were placed atop the cache to control the explosion. A two-pound dynamite charge, activated by a battery-powered switch, then was set up.
When all was in readiness, great crowds jammed the streets, approaching as close as police would allow. Only newspaper reporters and Scouts were permitted within the roped off area. All were warned to hit the ground face downward at the moment of the explosion.
The signal was given. Mr. Graham pulled a switch. But for a moment, nothing happened.
“It’s a dud—” War muttered.
His words were drowned by a mighty explosion which rocked the earth. Dirt and crushed stone flew high into the air.
“A dud, eh?” said Jack laughing, wiping dust from his clothes as he got quickly to his feet.
After an interval, the Scouts were permitted to inspect the great crater which had been made. The hole was fully fifteen feet across and nearly five feet deep.
“I guess a little knowledge comes in handy,” Bob remarked in awe. “It’s sure lucky we recognized that stuff as nitro.”
The Scouts thought no more of the incident. Therefore, it came as a distinct surprise, when on the following day, they received word that a recognition dinner was to be given in their honor. Explorers Post 21 members were instructed to present themselves at the Belton Hotel at six o’clock on Friday night.
“Do we have to go?” Willie asked Mr. Livingston in alarm.
“I would,” the Scout leader advised. “The mayor and the president of the auto plant are giving the dinner. You boys performed a fine service, so it’s only right that Belton should show appreciation.”
Their consciences at ease, the Scouts pressed their green Explorers’ uniforms and at the designated hour presented themselves at the hotel. Two hundred businessmen and their wives had turned out to honor the boys.
The dinner was excellent and high praise was bestowed upon the Scouts. As a climax, the mayor arose to announce that citizens of Belton City wished to show their appreciation in a more material way. In behalf of the entire Post, he handed Jack a check for $900.
Jack glued his eyes on the bit of paper, too overcome to speak. He felt Ken nudge him.
“Say something, you lug!” his chum urged.
“In behalf of my fellow Explorers—” Jack began, “I want to say that we’re most grateful.” He laughed and dropped the formality. “Oh, heck! We only did what every Scout is supposed to do—his duty. We didn’t want pay.”
“Of course, you didn’t, Jack,” responded the mayor. “Nevertheless, we feel that the Scouts performed a great service. Had it not been for your alertness, the automobile plant might have been destroyed. So take the check and spend it as you wish—a vacation trip or new furniture for your club room.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack murmured, grinning. “We’ll manage to spend it all right!”
After the gathering had broken up, the Explorers joined Mr. Livingston to discuss their good fortune. Jack turned the check over to the Scout leader, who said he would deposit it at the bank the first thing the following morning.
“What a night it’s been!” Willie remarked blissfully. “With all this dough, we really can have a bang-up trip to Minnesota—if we go.”
The Scouts gazed speculatively at Mr. Livingston. Since the arrival of the letter and emerald from his friend in Colombia, he had not even mentioned the subject again. Had he given up all thought of making the trip, they wondered?
“Fellows,” Mr. Livingston said abruptly, “I hadn’t intended to spill this just yet, but I may as well. I’ve accepted Appleby Corning’s offer. I hope to leave for Colombia within three weeks.”
No one replied for a moment. The information was most disappointing.
Ken was the first to find tongue. “Why, that’s fine,” he said in a hollow tone. “We’ll miss you, but it’s a splendid opportunity. Post 21 won’t be the same without you, but we’ll get along somehow.”
“Who said anything about getting along without me?” Mr. Livingston demanded with a broad smile.
“You don’t mean you’re taking us with you!” cried War, his freckled face crinkling into lines of delight.
“That’s the general idea. I cabled my friend, and received a reply this morning. He said to bring you fellows along.”
“But the cost?” Jack interposed anxiously.
“That’s the rub,” admitted the Scout leader. “Appleby isn’t too well off. He’s offered though, to pay all the plane fares, round trip. All other expenses of the trip would have to be met by us.”
“Would nine hundred dollars do it?” War asked eagerly.
“It might.”
“We have another hundred or so we’ve saved for the Minnesota trip,” added Willie. “I’m for shooting the works!”
“Until the mayor presented the check tonight, I couldn’t see how the trip might be financed,” Mr. Livingston admitted. “But with plane fare furnished, I think we could get along. Once we’re in Colombia, Mr. Corning will put us up at the Last Chance mine. So we’ll have no living expenses there. Naturally, we’ll need a little extra money for emergencies.”
“When do we start?” War chortled. “Why wait three weeks?”
“There’s a little item of school for one thing,” Mr. Livingston reminded him. “Also, your parents must consent. Talk the matter over with them and report to me tomorrow.”
By the following day, all the Scouts with exception of Bob, had obtained permission to make the journey. His parents felt that he was too young to attempt such a long trip. Instead, they were taking him with them on a motor tour to California.
“Honestly, I don’t mind too much,” Bob cheerfully informed his friends. “I’m not a softie, but those tales you told about being held captive by Indians in Peru left me rather cold. I’m partial to a nice bed and three square meals a day.”
“This is a different sort of trip,” Jack said. “We don’t expect to become mixed up in an intrigue over Inca gold.”
“It may be emeralds this time,” Bob predicted. “Something’s brewing or Mr. Corning wouldn’t have sent for Hap.”
“You’re probably right,” Jack agreed with a grin. “Trouble certainly has developed at the Last Chance mine. And it’s a cinch we’re going to be in the thick of it!”
“This must be the place. A filthy looking little office.”
Mr. Livingston had paused before a doorway on a shadeless, rather depressing back street of Cartagena. Only a moment before, a carriage had deposited the Scout leader and the four Explorers at an address where they hoped to obtain information concerning Appleby Corning.
The day was uncomfortably warm. Since arriving eighteen hours earlier at the Caribbean port, the Scouts had waited expectantly at their hotel.
No word had come from Mr. Livingston’s friend, the mining engineer, who had promised to meet and personally escort them to the Last Chance mine above Emerald Valley in the eastern Andes.
Learning that the company which controlled the emerald mine, had a Cartagena as well as a Bogota office, the Scouts finally had set out to find the former.
“This is the company office all right,” Jack Hartwell confirmed, consulting an address scribbled in his notebook.
“In we go,” the Scout leader urged.
He led the way into the untidy quarters of the Bolton Mining Company offices. The outside room in which the Explorers found themselves was both deserted and dusty. Old magazines and mining journals cluttered the tables and chairs.
“No one here,” Warwick remarked uneasily.
Ken, however, crossed the room to an inner doorway which opened into another office.
“I beg your pardon,” he said apologetically. “Good morning.”
The words were addressed to a man, who sat half-hidden behind a battered, roll-top desk. He wore no coat or necktie and had not shaved that day.
Seeing Ken in the doorway, the agent’s feet came down from the desk where they had been resting. His mouth dropped open to expose unclean, broken teeth.
“Good morning,” Ken repeated pleasantly. “Are you the agent for the Bolton Mining Company?”
“That’s me,” the man growled. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Unprepared for such an indifferent reception, Ken stepped aside so that Mr. Livingston and the other Scouts could enter. The company agent regarded them with obvious annoyance.
“Well, what d’you want?” he demanded again as no one spoke.
“My name is George Livingston,” the Scout leader introduced himself. “You probably know why I am here.”
“Never heard of you.”
Somewhat taken aback by the agent’s blunt reply, Mr. Livingston introduced Ken, Jack, Willie and Warwick. The mining company man merely stared at them with complete lack of interest.
“You are Ferd Baronni?” Mr. Livingston inquired, as the agent failed to introduce himself. He had been informed at the hotel as to the company representative’s name.
“That’s right. You got business with me?”
“Appleby Corning didn’t tell you we were coming to Colombia?”
“I ain’t seen Corning in three months. And if I don’t see him for another three, it will be soon enough!”
Mr. Livingston ignored the remark. “Mr. Corning agreed to meet us here,” he told the agent. “It seems there’s something wrong at the Last Chance mine, and he wanted us to help him out.”
“There’s always trouble at the mine,” Ferd Baronni growled. He eyed the Scout leader suspiciously. “What did he send word to you for?”
“Mr. Corning didn’t explain. He merely forwarded plane fares and asked us to come.”
“Corning paid your way here? I always knew that guy was half crazy and this proves it! What does he figure you can do to get the mine on a paying basis? You an engineer, huh?”
“No, I’m a Boy Scout leader.”
The agent’s thin lips parted in a hard, mirthless smile. “You’ll be a big help!” he said sarcastically.
“Sure! You’ll never be able to stand the climate at the Last Chance. It’s a lot colder than Bogota. I advise you to climb back on a plane and return to the States.”
“We’re asking for information, not advice,” Mr. Livingston said pleasantly. “Do you know when Mr. Corning is likely to get here?”
“You know more about it than I do,” the agent shrugged.
“You are the representative of the company,” Mr. Livingston reminded him.
“Sure, but Corning’s comings and goings ain’t none of my affair. It’s my job to ship out the emeralds. Lately, there ain’t been any to ship.” The agent smiled in grim satisfaction. “If you want it straight, your friend has fallen down on the job. He came here talking big—oh, he was going to clean up the mess at the Last Chance—get the cooperation of the workers, and open up a big vein! What’s he done? Failed like they all do.”
“You’ve handled company affairs for quite a while, I take it?” the Scout leader questioned.
“Twelve years. Part of the time I’m at the Bogota office.”
“Tell us a little about the Last Chance mine,” Mr. Livingston urged.
“Nothing to tell. Emerald mining is a government monopoly here, but an American outfit got a concession. The best emeralds in the world are found in Colombia.” For the first time, since the Scouts had met him, Mr. Baronni showed enthusiasm. “The Last Chance has been worked off and on before the coming of the Spaniards. But the mine’s playing out. Since your friend Corning took over, production has dropped alarmingly. Any day now I expect to get word from the company to close down completely.”
“Sounds rather discouraging,” Mr. Livingston commented. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Corning doesn’t know how to handle the Indians. They steal him blind. Another thing, the mine is playing out. It’s up to him to find another vein of emeralds, and find it quick. The former engineer should have been left in charge.”
Mr. Livingston eyed the agent thoughtfully, but made no comment. It had been apparent from the first, that Ferd Baronni had no love for Appleby Corning.
“Want to see some emeralds?” the agent invited, pulling himself reluctantly from a swivel chair.
From an old-fashioned safe, he removed a cigar box. Almost reverently, he fingered a handful of large emeralds contained within. One which he offered Mr. Livingston was soft to the touch, very dark in color and had smoldering fire.
Another, somewhat smaller, was a shade lighter. Instead of having a subdued glow, it seemed to blaze with flame.
“Now this one’s a first quality emerald,” the agent informed the awed group. “We ain’t getting many of ’em any more from the Last Chance.”
“You say the mine is likely to close down?” Mr. Livingston questioned.
“Any day now. Then the workers will drift off to find work elsewhere. Once a mine shuts down, vegetation takes over. That’s how so many once-rich veins have been lost.”
“Mr. Corning didn’t tell you we were coming?”
“Not a word.”
“Our cables I think, came through here. Or perhaps they were sent by way of Santa Marta.”
“That’s the big banana shipping port. Corning has friends there. Your message to him still may be there uncollected.”
“But he knew we were coming,” Mr. Livingston said in a worried voice. “He promised to meet us here at Cartagena.”
“Sure it wasn’t Santa Marta or Bogota?”
“Of course not. We wouldn’t make a mistake as stupid as that. How can we get word to him?”
“No way,” the agent replied indifferently. “When Corning gets around to it, if he ain’t too busy, he may drop down to Santa Marta. Or maybe to Bogota. Lately, he’s been sending his emeralds to the office there—when he has any to send, which ain’t often.”
“Can’t we get word to the mine?”
“There’s no railroad. Only a mule track. My advice is to see Cartagena and if he doesn’t show up in a few days, take a boat back to the States.”
The agent’s advice was most discouraging to the Scouts. After talking with Baronni for a while longer, they gloomily returned to their hotel to think over the situation.
“I can’t believe Appleby would let us down,” Mr. Livingston told the Explorers. “He’ll get word to us soon. Meanwhile, we may as well do a little sightseeing.”
“We haven’t any too much cash,” Ben reminded the group. “In making our plans, we figured on Mr. Corning putting us up at the mine. If we run a fancy hotel bill here for a week or so, it will make quite a dent in our funds.”
“Appleby will show up within a couple of days,” Mr. Livingston insisted. “Let’s not worry about it.”
With time heavy upon their hands, the four Explorers thoroughly explored the delightful port of Cartagena. They visited the old reservoir, the ancient walls, the harbor and the fine residential section.
But after three days of leisurely sightseeing, the Scouts wearied of the quiet old city. Each morning they called upon Ferd Baronni to ask if any word had been received from Appleby Corning. Each day, the answer was in the negative.
“Better forget about the Last Chance mine,” the agent advised them gruffly. “You can catch a boat tomorrow for the States. After that, there won’t be another for a week.”
Mr. Livingston shook his head. “Mr. Corning sent for us. I’m unwilling to return without at least making an effort to contact him.”
“Suit yourself,” the agent shrugged. “You got a long wait ahead probably.”
“We can’t afford to lose any more time. I’ve practically decided to go on to the Bogota office.”
Baronni straightened in his swivel chair. “Some company officials live there, but the office is closed most of the time,” he informed the Scout leader. “If you’re dead set on pulling out of here, you’d have a better chance of learning about your friend at Santa Marta.”
“Very well. How do we get there? Can you help us, or shall we make arrangements ourselves?”
Ferd Baronni gazed steadily at Mr. Livingston a moment. “I’ll make the arrangements, if you’re determined to go,” he said. “I got a friend who runs a sled boat between here and Calamar. When you get there you can take a boat.”
“Fine!”
“Be at the dock tomorrow at seven,” the agent advised, writing an address on a slip of paper.
The Scouts thanked him for his trouble, and went back to the hotel to pack. Their spirits soared at the prospect of leaving Cartagena. At dinner however, Jack noticed that Mr. Livingston was unusually quiet.
“Worried?” he inquired.
“Not exactly.”
“You’re afraid we may not find Mr. Corning at Santa Marta?” Jack guessed.
“The thought does bother me. It’s a little out of our way in going to the mine. Another thing—”
“What’s that?” Jack asked as the Scout leader hesitated.
“I’m borrowing trouble, I guess. But I can’t help wishing I hadn’t allowed Ferd Baronni to make our travel arrangements. He seemed too eager to do it.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“Not entirely,” Mr. Livingston admitted. “He dislikes Appleby Corning. Furthermore, he’s resented our mission here.”
“I noticed that. We could cancel the arrangements.”
The Scout leader considered for a moment, then shook his head. “No, we’ll let them stand,” he decided. “I’m ashamed of my suspicions. The sled-boat trip should prove to be an interesting diversion. I’m looking forward to it.”
Mr. Livingston and the Explorers presented themselves at the dock promptly at seven o’clock the following morning.
They were to proceed by way of a natural channel connecting the Magdalena River with the sea. The propeller boat in which they were to ride already was waiting.
“Queer looking contraption,” Ken remarked upon inspecting it.
The sea-sled was approximately thirty feet in length, motor-powered, and with curious runners. A canopy was provided as protection from the sun, and there were comfortable wicker chairs.
“Are we ready to start?” Mr. Livingston inquired cheerfully after the luggage had been placed aboard.
“Not yet,” the operator answered.
He was a young Colombian, dark-haired and with an extremely nervous manner.
The Scouts took their places in the sled-boat and waited. Fifteen minutes passed, and finally a half hour.
“Why the delay?” Jack finally asked, walking over to the boat operator.
“Waiting for another passenger,” the man answered curtly. “Don’t bother me.”
“What sort of service is this, anyhow?” Willie grumbled. “This late passenger must be a mighty important guy!”
Another twenty minutes elapsed while the Scouts grew increasingly impatient.
Finally, the one for whom they waited, arrived at the dock. A handsome woman of forty, dressed in a white linen suit, came hurriedly to the sled-boat. Porters carried her luggage, and a number of boxes.
“Gosh, she must be the wife of an official or something!” Warwick whispered to Jack. “She had her nerve holding us up nearly an hour!”
“Quiet!” the other warned him. “You want her to hear?”
The woman spoke briefly with the operator of the sled-boat, whose name the Scouts now knew to be Haredia. They conversed so rapidly in Spanish that Jack could not understand, despite some knowledge of the language. However, he saw the pair glance twice in the direction of the boat, and had an uneasy feeling that the Scout party was under discussion.
Presently, the woman came aboard, accepting the chair which Mr. Livingston offered her. She scrutinized each of the Scouts and sat down without mentioning her name.
“I’m George Livingston,” the Scout leader introduced himself, intending to be friendly.
A roar of the powerful boat motor drowned out his words. The woman merely inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement of the introduction and made no answer.
The Scouts settled back into their chairs expectantly. A great fountain of spray was thrown up as the boat glided smoothly over the water on her long runners.
“This is great!” War cried, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Just like a toboggan!”
From the bay, the boat shot out into the open Caribbean sea and presently slowed down to enter a passageway leading to a marshy lake.
The sled continued to skim along between banks dense with tropical growth. Jack stole a glance at the woman passenger. She showed no interest in the scenery, and in fact, appeared bored. From her indifference, he concluded that she had made the trip on prior occasions and that the experience no longer interested her.
Without slackening speed, the sled raced on past villages of thatched huts. Only when they reached a great marsh, did the operator throttle the motor.
Anxiously, he studied the many bays and inlets which were heavily clogged with water-hyacinths.
“What’s wrong now?” Ken murmured, as Haredia tried first one and then another of the openings.
“He’s searching for a passageway through,” Mr. Livingston explained. “I hope we don’t clog the propeller.”
As the sled proceeded, the way became more difficult. Hyacinths were floating everywhere in dense masses.
“I’ll bet we’ve taken the wrong channel,” Willie muttered. “Haredia should turn back before we’re hemmed in.”
“He never will,” Ken replied. “Not that bird!”
For no reason that the Scouts could explain, they had taken a dislike to the operator of the sled boat. Haredia had not been hostile, but he had coldly ignored them. Though he had handled the boat skillfully enough in open water, it seemed to them that now that the going had become harder, he was abandoning all caution.
“We’re getting into those hyacinths deeper and deeper,” Jack remarked uneasily. “Why don’t we turn back?”
Glancing over his shoulder, he was rather dismayed to see an almost solid meadow of water plants behind the boat.
“It would be easy to get lost in this mess,” he remarked. “But I suppose Haredia knows what he’s doing.”
The sled kept stubbornly on, its laboring engines cutting a passage.
Then suddenly the motor set up a frightful clatter and the boat began to move in jerks.
“We’ve done it now!” Jack exclaimed. “The motor’s shot!”
Mr. Livingston left his chair and went over to see what he could do to help. Haredia, nervous and perspiring, brushed aside his offer.
“Don’t bother me now!” he rasped. “We’ll get out of this!”
“We will, if you use your head,” the Scout leader replied. “But you can’t keep on without ruining the motor. It sounds to me as if the clutch has slipped.”
“What do you expect me to do?” Haredia demanded savagely. “Fix it here?”
“Isn’t there a place where we can put in for repairs?”
“We’ll do better to go on, if we can find the channel.”
“We’re lost then?”
“Not lost,” Haredia insisted irritably. “With the motor running right, I could find the channel in time.”
“Can’t we pole out of this?”
“It will be hard work,” the operator tried to discourage him.
Nevertheless, he brought out the long poles and the Scouts took turns shoving the heavy boat backwards through the thick, choking mass. A hot sun beat upon them, causing perspiration to run down their foreheads and legs.
As they toiled, the woman passenger showed little interest. Remaining under the shade of the canopy, she fanned herself and calmly read a magazine.
The Scouts began to feel annoyed as the sun rose higher and the poling became harder. They expected no help from their fellow passenger, but her utter indifference to their toil rather nettled them.
As for Haredia, he divided his time between steering the craft and smoking cigarettes. Not once did he grasp a pole to exert any physical effort.
Getting out of the worst of the hyacinth net, the Scouts tried several inlets which offered promise. None led to open water.
Haredia was able to move the boat slowly now by means of the crippled motor. But stretches of clear going were few and far between. For the greater part of the time, the Scouts were forced to pole. Their hands became blistered and their backs sore.
By dint of exhausting work, they finally brought the boat to an area of sparse hyacinth growth. Three passages opened before them. Haredia steered toward one of them.
“Let’s take the other opening,” Jack proposed. “It looks less clogged with plants.”
Haredia acted as if he had not heard. Jack repeated the suggestion. Still there was no response. The other Scouts had stopped poling, allowing the boat to drift.
Haredia started to turn on the disabled motor.
“Wait!” Jack said tersely. “Let’s talk this over. You admit you’re lost.”
“We will find the passage in time.”
“But one looks the same as another.” Jack went on. “It’s just a process of elimination—trying them one at a time?”
“That is right, Senor.”
“Then let’s try the other passage first.”
Haredia glowered at Jack. “This one is better,” he insisted.
The woman passenger had laid aside her magazine. She spoke firmly. “Haredia is right. We must follow his advice.”
Jack knew he was beaten. Actually, in appearance, there was little choice between the passageways. He was ready to give in to Haredia’s wishes when Ken nudged him and pointed.
A native in a dugout canoe had just emerged from another inlet.
“He should be able to guide us to a village if we can make him understand!” Ken asserted. “Let’s give him a yodel!”
To the obvious displeasure of both the woman and Haredia, Jack shouted to the native. He came readily, gazing in awe at the crippled boat.
Haredia spoke rapidly to him. Jack caught a few of the words and the native’s answer.
“He says we’re to take this passage,” Haredia translated, pointing to the one he had favored.
Jack’s eyes smoldered. “Sorry,” he said coldly, “but I happen to understand a little Spanish. You didn’t ask him how to reach the nearest village. You said something about the weather.”
“I’ve had enough of this!” Haredia said furiously. “Maybe the Senor would like to take charge?”
Jack glanced questioningly at Mr. Livingston.
“Thanks, we will,” the Scout leader replied. Quietly, he instructed Jack: “Try to make the native understand that we want him to guide us to the nearest village or plantation. Tell him we’ll pay well for the service.”
When Haredia understood that Mr. Livingston and the Scouts were determined to question the native, his attitude abruptly changed. He spoke again to the man in the dugout, who nodded and gestured in the direction Jack had suggested that they take.
“This Indian will guide us,” Haredia informed the passengers. “He says we are to follow him. With your permission, senor, I will do so.”
In an insolent manner, the boat operator bowed to Mr. Livingston.
“It seems we were right about the passageway,” the Scout leader replied. “How far is the nearest village?”
“There is a plantation on about a quarter of a mile,” Haredia returned.
“Then we will go there.”
Aided by the racking motor, the sled boat moved by spurts through the hyacinths. The Indian, naked to his waist, paddled ahead, indicating every turn in the maze.
Gradually, the mat of entangling hyacinths thinned out and they saw the main channel ahead.
“This looks more like it,” Jack sighed, putting away the poles.
The disabled motor presently brought them to the wharf of a large plantation. While Haredia and Mr. Livingston attended to getting repairs, the Scouts sat in the shade and sipped cool drinks.
“I can’t figure Haredia,” Willie remarked, swatting an insect. “Was he trying to pull a fast one on us, or not?”
“It’s easy enough to lose one’s way in a field of hyacinths,” War returned. “We can’t blame him for that, although one would think he’d know the route.”
“He was stubborn about wanting to take that other inlet,” Willie went on reflectively. “If we’d followed his advice, we’d be poling yet!”
“I wouldn’t have thought too much about it, except that he clearly didn’t want that native to guide us here,” contributed Ken. “I’m glad Happy insisted upon staying at the dock while repairs are being made.”
“Hap won’t let him pull anything,” Jack declared confidently. Draining his glass of limeade he arose and stretched his legs. “Guess I’ll amble down to the wharf to see how the work’s going. Maybe I can help.”
Bored by inactivity, Ken decided to accompany him. Leaving Willie and War to finish their drinks, the two sauntered down to the wharf where the sea sled had been raised out of water.
“Wonder what became of our female passenger?” Jack remarked.
“Oh, she went to the plantation house,” Ken answered indifferently. “I hope she stays there too. She’s a cool number.”
“Learn her name?”
“Not yet, but I aim to,” Ken announced. “Maybe this is my chance now.”
Haredia was coming up the path, eating a sandwich of sardines. He would have avoided the pair had not Ken stopped him.
“How’s the work coming along?”
“All right,” the boatman told him briefly. “The clutch is fixed.”
“Then we’ll be starting soon?”
“The rudder is bent.”
“Oh, that’s bad,” Ken commented. “How long will we be held here?”
Haredia shrugged. “Who knows?” he asked. “Maybe an hour. Maybe three.”
“It’s a bit hard on the lady,” Ken commented, seeing an opening. “By the way, what’s her name?”
“I would not know,” Haredia returned stiffly.
“You and she seemed well acquainted.”
“The Senora has traveled on my sled boat once before.”