IN THE JUNGLE
IN THE JUNGLE
"What will we do with the cameras, Blake? The films, too, they will all be spoiled—we haven't enough waterproof cases!" cried Joe to his chum, as the boat, through some accident or failure, backed nearer and nearer to the closing steel gates.
"Will we really have to jump overboard?" asked the Spaniard. "I am not a very excellent swimmer."
But Blake, at whom these questions seemed directed, did not have to answer them. For, after a series of confused shouts on the top of the concrete wall above them the movement of the boat, as well as the slow motion of the lock gates, ceased. It was just in time, for the rudder of the tug was not more than a few feet away from the jaws of steel.
"You're all right now," a man called down to those on the tug, from the wall over their heads. "Something went wrong with the towing locomotives. There's no more danger."
"Well, I'm glad to know that," answered Captain Watson gruffly. "You might just as well kill a man as scare him to death. What was the matter, anyhow?"
"Well, all of our machinery isn't working as smoothly as we'll have it later," the canal engineer explained. "Some of our signals went wrong as you were being towed through, and you went backward instead of forward. Then it took a minute or so to stop the lock gates. But you're all right now, and you'll go on through."
Blake and Joe looked at each other and smiled in relief, and Mr. Alcando appeared to breathe easier. A little later the tug was again urged forward toward the front lock gates. Then the closing of those at her stern went on, until the vessel was in a square steel and concrete basin—or, rather, a rectangular one, for it was longer than it was wide, to lend itself to the shape of the vessels. As Blake had said, it was like a big swimming tank.
"Now we'll go up," Captain Watson said. "You can't get any pictures in here, I suppose?" he added.
"We can show the water bubbling up as it fills the lock," said Blake. "Water always makes a pretty scene in moving pictures, as it seems to move at just the right rate of speed. We'll take a short strip of film, Joe, I guess."
The tug did not occupy a whole section of the lock, for they are built to accommodate vessels a thousand feet long. To economize time in filling up such a great tank as that would be the locks are subdivided by gates into small tanks for small vessels.
"It takes just forty-six gates for all the locks," explained Captain Watson, while Blake and Joe were getting their camera in position, and the men at the locks were closing certain water valves and opening others. "Each lock has two leaves, or gates, and their weight runs anywhere from three hundred to six hundred tons, according to its position. Some of the gates are forty-seven feet high, and others nearly twice that, and each leaf is sixty-five feet wide, and seven feet thick."
"Think of being crushed between two steel gates, of six hundred tons each, eighty feet high, sixty-five feet wide and seven feet thick," observed Joe.
"I don't want to think of it!" laughed Blake. "We are well out of that," and he glanced back toward the closed and water-tight lock gates which had so nearly nipped the tug.
"Here comes the water!" cried the captain. There was a hissing and gurgling sound, and millions of bubbles began to show on the surface of the limpid fluid in which floated theNama. The water came in from below, through the seventy openings in the floor of each lock, being admitted by means of pipes and culverts from the upper level.
As the water hissed, boiled and bubbled while it flowed in Blake took moving pictures of it. Slowly theNamarose. Higher and higher she went until finally she was raised as high as that section of the lock would lift her. She went up at the rate of two feet a minute, though Captain Watson explained that when there was need of hurry the rate could be three feet a minute.
"And we have two more locks to go through?" asked Joe.
"Yes, two more here at Gatun, and three at Miraflores; or, rather, there is one lock at Pedro Miguel, where we go down thirty and a third feet, and then we go a mile to reach the locks at Miraflores.
"There we shall have to go through two locks, with a total drop of fifty-four and two-thirds feet," Captain Watson explained. "The system is the same at each place."
The tug was now resting easily in the basin, but some feet above the sea level. Blake and Joe had taken enough moving pictures of this phase of the Canal, since the next scenes would be but a repetition of the process in the following two locks that would lift theNamato the level of Gatun Lake.
"But I tell you what we could do," Blake said to his chum.
"What's that—swim the rest of the way," asked Joe, "and have Mr. Alcando make pictures of us?"
"No, we've had enough of water lately. But we could get out on top of the lock walls, and take pictures of the tug going through the lock. That would be different."
"So it would!" cried Joe. "We'll do it!"
They easily obtained permission to do this, and soon, with their cameras, and accompanied by Mr. Alcando, they were on the concrete wall. From that vantage point they watched the opening of the lock gates, which admitted theNamainto the next basin. There she was shut up, by the closing of the gates behind her, and raised to the second level. The boys succeeded in getting some good pictures at this point and others, also, when the tug was released from the third or final lock, and steamed out into Gatun Lake. There was now before her thirty-two miles of clear water before reaching Miraflores.
"Better come aboard, boys," advised Captain Watson, "and I'll take you around to Gatun Dam. You'll want views of that."
"We sure will!" cried Blake.
"Isn't it all wonderful!" exclaimed Joe, who was deeply impressed by all he saw.
"It is, indeed!" agreed the Spaniard. "Your nation is a powerful and great one. It is a tremendous achievement."
Aboard the tug they went around toward the great dam that is really the key to the Panama Canal. For without this dam there would be no Gatun Lake, which holds back the waters of the Chagres River, making a big lake eighty-five feet above the level of the ocean. It is this lake that makes possible the operation of a lock canal. Otherwise there would have to be a sea-level one, and probably you boys remember what a discussion there was, in Congress and elsewhere, about the advantages and disadvantages of a sea-level route across the Isthmus.
But the lock canal was decided on, and, had it not been, it is probable that the Canal would be in process of making for many years yet to come, instead of being finished now.
"Whew!" whistled Joe, as they came in sight of the dam. "That sure is going some!"
"That's what it is!" cried Captain Watson, proudly, for he had had a small part in the work. "It's a mile and a half long, half a mile thick at the base, three hundred feet through at the waterline, and on top a third of that."
"How high is it?" asked Joe, who always liked to know just how big or how little an object was. He had a great head for figures.
"It's one hundred and five feet high," the captain informed him, "and it contains enough concrete so that if it were loaded into two-horse wagons it would make a procession over three times around the earth."
"Catch me! I'm going to faint!" cried Blake, staggered at the immensity of the figure.
"That dam is indeed the key to the whole lock," murmured Mr. Alcando, as he looked at the wonderful piece of engineering. "If it were to break—the Canal would be ruined."
"Yes, ruined, or at least destroyed for many years," said Captain Watson solemnly. "But it is impossible for the dam to break of itself. No waters that could come into the lake could tear it away, for every provision has been made for floods. They would be harmless."
"What about an earthquake?" asked Joe. "I've read that the engineers feared them."
"They don't now," said the captain. "There was some talk, at first, of an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption, destroying the dam, but Panama has not been visited by a destructive earthquake in so long that the danger need not be considered. And there are no volcanoes near enough to do any harm. It is true, there might be a slight earthquake shock, but the dam would stand that. The only thing that might endanger it would be a blast of dynamite."
"Dynamite!" quickly exclaimed Mr. Alcando. "And who would dare to explode dynamite at the dam?"
"I don't know who would do it, but some of the enemies of the United States might. Or someone who fancied the Canal had damaged him," the captain went on.
"And who would that be?" asked Blake in a low tone.
"Oh, someone, or some firm, who might fancy that the Canal took business away from them. It will greatly shorten certain traffic and trade routes, you know."
"Hardly enough to cause anyone to commit such a crime as that, do you think?" asked the Spaniard.
"That is hard to answer," went on the tug commander. "I know that we are taking great precautions, though, to prevent the dam, or the locks, from being damaged. Uncle Sam is taking no chances. Well, have you pictures enough?"
"I think so," answered Blake. "When we come back we'll stop off here and get some views from below the dam, showing the spillway."
"Yes, that ought to be interesting," the captain agreed.
The tug now steamed on her way out into Gatun Lake, and there a series of excellent views were obtained for the moving picture cameras. Mr. Alcando was allowed to do his part. He was rapidly learning what the boys could teach him.
"Of course it could never happen," the Spaniard said, when the cameras had been put away, for the views to be obtained then were of too much sameness to attract Joe or Blake, "it would never happen, and I hope it never does; but if it did it would make a wonderful picture; would it not?" he asked.
"What are you talking about?" asked Blake.
"The Gatun Dam," was the answer. "If ever it was blown up by dynamite it would make a wonderful scene."
"Too wonderful," said Joe grimly. "It would be a terrible crime against civilization to destroy this great canal."
"Yes, it would be a great crime," agreed the Spaniard in a low voice. A little later he went to his stateroom on the tug, and Blake and Joe remained on deck.
"Queer sort of a chap; isn't he?" said Joe.
"He sure is—rather deep," agreed his chum.
"Are you boys going into the jungle?" asked the tug captain that afternoon.
"Yes, we want to get a few views showing life in the woods," answered Blake. "Why?"
"Well, the reason I asked is that I can take you to the mouth of the Chagres River and from there you won't have so much trouble penetrating into the interior. So if you're going—"
"I think we had better go; don't you?" asked Blake of his chum.
"Surely, yes. We might get some fine pictures. They'll go well with the Canal, anyhow; really a sort of part of the series we're taking."
"All right, then, I'll leave you in the jungle," the captain said.
A day or so later, stops having been made to permit the boys to film certain scenes they wanted, the tug reached Gamboa, where they stopped, to plan a trip into the interior.
Then, one morning, with their cameras loaded with film, they started off for a brief trip into the jungle.
IN DIRE PERIL
IN DIRE PERIL
A small launch had been provided for the use of Blake and Joe in going into the jungle, the first part of their trip being along the Chagres River. The tug on which they had come thus far was not suitable.
Accordingly they had transferred what baggage they needed to the launch, and with their moving picture cameras, with shelter tents, food, supplies and some West Indian negroes as helpers, they were prepared to enjoy life as much as possible in the jungle of the Isthmus.
"You boys don't seem to mind what you do to get pictures," commented Mr. Alcando, as they sat in the launch, going up the stream, the existence of which made possible Gatun Lake.
"No, you get so you'll do almost anything to get a good film," agreed Blake.
"This is easy compared to some of the things we've done," Joe remarked. "You'll become just as fascinated with it as we are, Mr. Alcando."
"I hope so," he admitted, "for I will have to penetrate into a much wilder jungle than this if I take the views our company wants. Perhaps I can induce you to come to South America and make films for us in case I can't do it," he concluded.
"Well, we're in the business," remarked Blake with a smile. "But you'll get so you can take for yourself just as good pictures as we can."
"Do you really think so?" asked the Spaniard, eagerly.
"I'm sure of it," Blake said.
The little suspicions both he and Joe had entertained of their companion seemed to have vanished. Certainly he neither did nor said anything that could be construed as dangerous. He was a polished gentleman, and seemed to regard the boys as his great friends. He often referred to the runaway accident.
As for the odd, ticking box, it seemed to have been put carefully away, for neither Blake nor Joe saw it, nor had they heard the click of it when they went near Mr. Alcando's possessions.
The first night in the jungle was spent aboard the boat. It was pleasant enough, mosquito canopies keeping away the pests that are said to cause malaria and yellow fever, among other things. But, thanks to the activities of the American sanitary engineers the mosquitoes are greatly lessened in the canal zone.
"And now for some real jungle life!" cried Blake the next day, as the little party set off into the forest, a group of laborers with machetes going ahead to clear the way.
For several miles nothing worth "filming" was seen, and Blake and Joe were beginning to feel that perhaps they had had their trouble for nothing. Now and then they came to little clearings in the thick jungle, where a native had chopped down the brush and trees to make a place for his palm-thatched and mud-floored hut. A few of them clustered about formed a village. Life was very simple in the jungle of Panama.
"Oh, Blake, look!" suddenly cried Joe, as they were walking along a native path. "What queer insects. They are like leaves."
The boys and Mr. Alcando saw what seemed to be a procession of green leaves making its way through the jungle.
"Those are real leaves the ants carry," explained the guide, who spoke very good English. "They are called leaf-cutting ants, and each one of them is really carrying a leaf he has cut from some tree."
On closer inspection the boys saw that this was so. Each ant carried on its back a triangular leaf, and the odd part, or, rather, one of the odd features, was that the leaf was carried with the thin edge forward, so it would not blow in the wind.
"What do they do with 'em?" asked Joe. "Eat 'em, or make houses of 'em?"
"Neither," replied the guide. "The ants put the leaves away until they are covered with a fungus growth. It is this fungus that the ants eat, and when it has all been taken from the leaves they are brought out of the ant homes, and a fresh lot of leaves are brought in. These ants are bringing in a fresh lot now, you see."
"How odd!" exclaimed Blake. "We must get a picture of this, Joe."
"We sure must!" agreed his chum.
"But how can you take moving pictures of such small things as ants?" asked Mr. Alcando.
"We'll put on an enlarging lens, and get the camera close to them," explained Blake, who had had experience in taking several films of this sort for the use of schools and colleges.
A halt was called while the camera was made ready, and then, as the ants went on in their queer procession, carrying the leaves which looked like green sails over their backs, the film clicked on in its indelible impression of them, for the delight of audiences who might see them on the screen, in moving picture theaters from Maine to California.
"Well, that was worth getting," said Blake, as they put away the camera, and went on again. "I wonder what we'll see next?"
"Have you any wild beasts in these jungles?" asked Mr. Alcando of the Indian guide.
"Well, not many. We have some deer, though this is not the best time to see them. And once in a while you'll see a—"
"What's that?" suddenly interrupted Blake, pointing through the thick growth of trees. "I saw some animal moving then. Maybe it was a deer. I'd like to get a picture of it."
There was a movement in the underbrush, and a shouting among the native carriers.
"Come on!" cried Joe, dashing ahead with a camera.
"Better wait," advised Mr. Alcando. "It might be something dangerous."
"It's only some tapirs, I think," the guide said. "They are harmless."
"Then we'll film them," decided Blake, though the mere fact of harm or danger being absent did not influence him.
Both he and Joe had taken pictures of dangerous wild animals in Africa, and had stood at the camera, calmly turning the handle, when it seemed as though death was on its way toward them in horrible form. Had occasion demanded it now they would have gone on and obtained the pictures. But there could be no danger from the tapirs.
The pictures obtained, however, were not very satisfactory. The light was poor, for the jungle was dense there, and the tapirs took fright almost at first, so the resultant film, as Blake and Joe learned later, when it was developed, was hardly worth the trouble they took. Still, it showed one feature of the Panama jungle.
All about the boys was a wonderful and dense forest. There were many beautiful orchids to be seen, hanging from trees as though they really grew, as their name indicates, in the air. Blake and Joe took views of some of the most beautiful. There was one, known as the "Holy Ghost" which only blooms twice a year, and when the petals slowly open there is seen inside them something which resembles a dove.
"Let's get some pictures of the next native village we come to," suggested Blake, as they went on after photographing the orchids and the tapirs.
"All right, that ought to go good as showing a type of life here," Joe agreed. And they made a stop in the next settlement, or "clearing," as it more properly should be called.
At first the native Indians were timid about posing for their pictures, but the guide of the boys' party explained, and soon they were as eager as children to be snapped and filmed.
"This is the simple life, all right," remarked Blake, as they looked at the collection of huts. "Gourds and cocoanut shells for kitchen utensils."
That was all, really, the black housekeeper had. But she did not seem to feel the need of more. The Panama Indians are very lazy. If one has sufficient land to raise a few beans, plantains and yams, and can catch a few fish, his wants are supplied. He burns some charcoal for fuel, and rests the remainder of the time.
"That is, when he doesn't go out to get some fresh meat for the table," explained the guide.
"Meat? Where can he get meat in the jungle, unless he spears a tapir?" asked Blake.
"There's the iguana," the guide said, with a laugh.
"Do they eat them?" cried Joe, for several times in the trip through the jungles he had jumped aside at a sight of the big lizards, which are almost as large as cats. They are probably the ugliest creatures in existence, if we except the horned toad and the rhinoceros.
"Eat them! I should say they did!" cried the guide. "Come over here."
He led the way toward a hut and there the boys saw a most repulsive, and, to them, cruel sight. There were several of the big iguanas, or lizards, with their short legs twisted and crossed over their backs. And, to keep the legs in this position the sharp claw of one foot was thrust through the fleshy part of another foot. The tail of each iguana had been cut off.
"What in the world do they do that for?" asked Blake.
"That's how they fatten the iguanas," the guide said. "The natives catch them alive, and to keep them from crawling off they fasten their legs in that manner. And, as the tail isn't good to eat, they chop that off."
"It's cruel!" cried Joe.
"Yes, but the Indians don't mean it so," the guide went on. "They are really too lazy to do anything else. If some one told them it was work to keep the lizards as they do, instead of just shutting them up in a box to stay until they were needed to be killed for food, they'd stop this practice. They'd do anything to get out of work; but this plan seems to them to be the easiest, so they keep it up."
"Is iguana really good eating?" asked Joe.
"Yes, it tastes like chicken," the guide informed them. "But few white persons can bring themselves to eat it."
"I'd rather have the fruits," said Mr. Alcando. The boys had eaten two of the jungle variety. One was themamaei, which was about as large as a peach, and the other thesapodilla, fruit of the color of a plum. The seeds are in a jelly-like mass.
"You eat them and don't have to be afraid of appendicitis," said the Spaniard with a laugh.
Several views were taken in the jungle "village," as Joe called it, and then they went farther on into the deep woods.
"Whew! It's hot!" exclaimed Joe, as they stopped to pitch a camp for dinner. "I'm going to have a swim." They were near a good-sized stream.
"I'm with you," said Blake, and the boys were soon splashing away in the water, which was cool and pleasant.
"Aren't you coming in?" called Blake to Mr. Alcando, who was on shore.
"Yes, I think I will join you," he replied. He had begun to undress, when Blake, who had swum half-way across the stream, gave a sudden cry.
"Joe! Joe!" he shouted. "I'm taken with a cramp, and there is an alligator after me. Help!"
IN CULEBRA CUT
IN CULEBRA CUT
Joe sprang to his feet at the sound of his chum's voice. He had come ashore, after splashing around in the water, and, for the moment, Blake was alone in the river.
As Joe looked he saw a black, ugly snout, and back of it a glistening, black and knobby body, moving along after Blake, who was making frantic efforts to get out of the way.
"I'm coming, Blake! I'm coming!" cried Joe, as he ran to the edge of the stream, with the intention of plunging in.
"You will be too late," declared Mr. Alcando. "The alligator will have him before you reach him. Oh, that I was a good swimmer, or that I had a weapon."
But Joe did not stay to hear what he said. But one idea was in his mind, that of rescuing his chum from peril. That he might not be in time never occurred to him.
Blake gave a gurgling cry, threw up his hands, and disappeared from sight as Joe plunged in to go to his rescue.
"It's got him—the beast has him!" cried the Spaniard, excitedly.
"No, not yet. I guess maybe he sank: to fool the alligator," said the guide, an educated Indian named Ramo. "I wonder if I can stop him with one shot?" he went on, taking up a powerful rifle that had been brought with the camp equipment.
Joe was swimming out with all his power, Blake was nowhere to be seen, and the alligator was in plain sight, heading for the spot where Blake had last been observed.
"It's my only chance!" muttered Ramo. "I hope the boy stays under water."
As he spoke the guide raised the rifle, took quick but careful aim, and fired. There was no puff of smoke, for the new high-powered, smokeless powder was used. Following the shot, there was a commotion in the water. Amid a smother of foam, bright red showed.
"You hit him, Ramo!" cried the Spaniard. "You hit him!"
"I guess I did," the Indian answered. "But where is Blake?"
That was what Joe was asking himself as he plunged on through the stream, using the Australian crawl stroke, which takes one through the water at such speed. Just what Joe could do when he reached his chum he did not stop to think. Certainly the two would have been no match for the big alligator.
But the monster had met his match in the steel-jacketed mushrooming bullet. It had struck true and after a death struggle the horrid creature sank beneath the surface just as Blake shot up, having stayed under as long as he could.
"All right, Blake! Here you are! I'm with you!" cried Joe, changing his course to bring himself to his chum. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, except for this cramp. The alligator didn't get near enough to do any damage. But where is he?"
"Ramo shot him," answered Joe, for he had seen the creature sink to its death. "You're all right now. Put your hand on my shoulder, and I'll tow you in."
"Guess you'll have to. I can't seem to swim. I dived down when I saw how near the beast was getting, thinking I might fool him. I hated to come up, but I had to," Blake panted.
"Well, you're all right now," Joe assured him, "but it was a close call. How did it happen?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Blake, still out of breath from trying to swim under water. "If I'd known there were alligators in this river I'd never have gone so far from shore."
"That's right," agreed Joe, looking around as though to make sure no more of the creatures were in sight.
He saw none. On the shore stood Ramo, the guide, with ready rifle.
"Feel better now?" asked Joe.
"Yes, the cramp seems to be leaving me. I think I went in swimming too soon after eating those plantains," for they had been given some of the yellow bananas by a native when they stopped at his hut for some water. "They upset me," Blake explained. "I was swimming about, waiting for you to come back and join me, when I saw what I thought was a log in the water. When it headed for me I thought it was funny, and then, when I saw what it was, I realized I'd better be getting back to shore. I tried, but was taken with a fierce cramp. You heard me just in time."
"Yes," responded Joe, as he and Blake reached water shallow enough to wade in, "but if it hadn't been for Ramo's gun—well, there might be a different story to tell."
"And one that wouldn't look nice in moving pictures," Blake went on with a laugh. "You did me a good turn," he said to Ramo a little later, as he shook hands with the dusky guide. "I shan't forget it."
"Oh, it wasn't anything to pop over an alligator that way," Ramo returned. "I've often done it for sport. Though I will admit I was a bit nervous this time, for fear of hitting you."
"I wish I had been the one to shoot it," said the Spaniard.
"Why?" asked Joe, as he sat down on the warm sandy bank of the stream to rest.
"Why, then I should have repaid, in a small measure, the debt I am under to you boys for saving my life. I shall never forget that."
"It wasn't anything," declared Blake quickly. "I mean, what we did for you."
"It meant a great deal—to me," returned the Spaniard quietly, but with considerable meaning in his tone. "Perhaps I shall soon be able to—but no matter. Are there many alligators in this stream?" he asked of Ramo.
"Oh, yes, more or less, just as there are in most of the Panaman rivers. But I never knew one to be so bold as to attack any one in daylight. Mostly they take dogs, pigs, or something like that. This must have been a big, hungry one."
"You'd have thought so if you were as close to him as I was," spoke Blake with a little shudder.
No one else felt like going in swimming just then, and the two boys dressed. Blake had fully recovered from the cramp that had so nearly been his undoing.
For a week longer they lived in the jungle, moving from place to place, camping in different locations and enjoying as much as they could the life in the wild. Blake and Joe made some good moving picture films, Mr. Alcando helping them, for he was rapidly learning how to work the cameras.
But the views, of course, were not as good as those the boys had obtained when in the African jungle. These of the Panama wilds, however, were useful as showing the kind of country through which the Canal ran, and, as such, they were of value in the series of films.
"Well, we'll soon be afloat again," remarked Blake, one night, when they had started back for Gamboa. "I've had about enough jungle."
"And so have I," agreed Joe, for the last two days it had rained, and they were wet and miserable. They could get no pictures.
Their tug was waiting for them as arranged and, once more on board, they resumed their trip through the Canal.
Soon after leaving Gamboa the vessel entered a part of the waterway, on either side of which towered a high hill through which had been dug a great gash.
"Culebra Cut!" cried Blake, as he saw, in the distance Gold Hill, the highest point. "We must get some pictures of this, Joe."
"That's right, so we must. Whew! It is a big cut all right!" he went on. "No wonder they said it was harder work here than at the Gatun Dam. And it's here where those big slides have been?"
"Yes, and there may be again," said Blake.
"I hope not!" exclaimed Captain Watson. "They are not only dangerous, but they do terrible damage to the Canal and the machinery. We want no more slides."
"But some are predicted," Blake remarked.
"Yes, I know they say they come every so often. But now it would take a pretty big one to do much damage. We have nearly tamed Culebra."
"If there came a big slide here it would block the Canal," observed Mr. Alcando, speculatively.
"Yes, but what would cause a slide?" asked the captain.
"Dynamite could do it," was the low-voiced answer.
"Dynamite? Yes, but that is guarded against," the commander said. "We are taking no chances. Now, boys, you get a good view of Culebra," and he pointed ahead. Blake and Joe were soon busy with their cameras, making different sets of views.
"Hand me that other roll of film; will you, please?" asked Blake of the Spaniard, who was helping them. "Mine is used up."
As Mr. Alcando passed over the box he muttered, though possibly he was unaware of it:
"Yes, dynamite here, or at the dam, would do the work."
"What—what's that?" cried Blake, in surprise.
THE COLLISION
THE COLLISION
Judging by Mr. Alcando's manner no one would have thought he had said anything out of the ordinary. But both Blake and Joe had heard his low-voiced words, and both stared aghast at him.
"What's that you said?" asked Blake, wondering whether he had caught the words aright.
"Dynamite!" exclaimed Joe, and then Blake knew he had made no mistake.
Somewhat to the surprise of himself and his chum the Spaniard smiled.
"I was speaking in the abstract, of course," he said. "I have a habit of speaking aloud when I think. I merely remarked that a charge of dynamite, here in Culebra Cut, or at Gatun Dam, would so damage the Canal that it might be out of business for years."
"You don't mean to say that you know of any one who would do such a thing!" cried Blake, holding the box of unexposed film that the Spaniard had given him.
"Of course not, my dear fellow. I was speaking in the abstract, I tell you. It occurred to me how easy it would be for some enemy to so place a charge of explosive. I don't see why the Canal is not better guarded. You Americans are too trusting!"
"What's that?" asked Captain Watson, coming up at this juncture.
"I was merely speaking to the boys about how easy it would be to put a charge of dynamite here in the cut, or at the dam, and damage the Canal," explained Mr. Alcando. "I believe they thought I meant to do it," he added with a laugh, as he glanced at the serious faces of the two moving picture boys.
"Well,—I—er,—I—," stammered Blake. Somewhat to his own surprise he did find himself harboring new suspicions against Mr. Alcando, but they had never before taken this form. As for Joe, he blushed to recall that he had, in the past, also been somewhat suspicious of the Spaniard. But now the man's frank manner of speaking had disarmed all that.
"Dynamite, eh!" exclaimed the captain. "I'd just like to see any one try it. This canal is better guarded than you think, my friend," and he looked meaningly at the other.
"Oh, I have no doubt that is so," was the quick response. "But it seems such a simple matter for one to do a great damage to it. Possibly the indifference to guarding it is but seeming only."
"That's what it is!" went on Captain Watson. "Dynamite! Huh! I'd like to see someone try it!" He meant, of course, that he would not like to see this done, but that was his sarcastic manner of speaking.
"What do you think of him, anyhow?" asked Joe of Blake a little later when they were putting away their cameras, having taken all the views they wanted.
"I don't know what to say, Joe," was the slow answer. "I did think there was something queer about Alcando, but I guess I was wrong. It gave me a shock, though, to hear him speak so about the Canal."
"The same here. But he's a nice chap just the same, and he certainly shows an interest in moving pictures."
"That's right. We're getting some good ones, too."
The work in Culebra Cut, though nearly finished, was still in such a state of progress that many interesting films could be made of it, and this the boys proposed to do, arranging to stay a week or more at the place which, more than any other, had made trouble for the canal builders.
"Well, it surely is a great piece of work!" exclaimed Blake, as he and Joe, with Mr. Alcando and Captain Watson, went to the top of Gold Hill one day. They were on the highest point of the small mountain through which the cut had to be dug.
"It is a wonderful piece of work," the captain said, as Blake and Joe packed up the cameras they had been using. "Think of it—a cut nine miles long, with an average depth of one hundred and twenty feet, and in some places the sides are five hundred feet above the bottom, which is, at no point, less than three hundred feet in width. A big pile of dirt had to be taken out of here, boys."
"Yes, and more dirt will have to be," said Mr. Alcando.
"What do you mean?" asked the tug commander quickly, and rather sharply.
"I mean that more slides are likely to occur; are they not?"
"Yes, worse luck!" growled the captain. "There have been two or three small ones in the past few weeks, and the worst of it is that they generally herald larger ones."
"Yes, that's what I meant," the Spaniard went on.
"And it's what we heard," spoke Blake. "We expect to get some moving pictures of a big slide if one occurs."
"Not that we want it to," explained Joe quickly.
"I understand," the captain went on with a smile. "But if itisgoing to happen you want to be here."
"Exactly," Blake said. "We want to show the people what a slide in Culebra looks like, and what it means, in hard work, to get rid of it."
"Well, it's hard work all right," the captain admitted, "though now that the water is in, and we can use scows and dredges, instead of railroad cars, we can get rid of the dirt easier. You boys should have been here when the cut was being dug, before the water was let in."
"I wish we had been," Blake said. "We could have gotten some dandy pictures."
"That's what you could," went on the captain. "It was like looking at a lot of ants through a magnifying glass. Big mouthfuls of dirt were being bitten out of the hill by steam shovels, loaded on to cars and the trains of cars were pulled twelve miles away to the dumping ground. There the earth was disposed of, and back came the trains for more. And with thousands of men working, blasts being sent off every minute or so, the puffing of engines, the tooting of whistles, the creaking of derricks and steam shovels—why it was something worth seeing!"
"Sorry we missed it," Joe said. "But maybe we'll get some pictures just as good."
"It won't be anything like that—not even if there's a big slide," the captain said, shaking his head doubtfully.
Though the Canal was practically finished, and open to some vessels, there was much that yet remained to be done upon it, and this work Blake and Joe, with Mr. Alcando to help them at the cameras, filmed each day. Reel after reel of the sensitive celluloid was exposed, packed in light-tight boxes and sent North for development and printing. At times when they remained in Culebra Cut, which they did for two weeks, instead of one, fresh unexposed films were received from New York, being brought along the Canal by Government boats, for, as I have explained, the boys were semi-official characters now.
Mr. Alcando was rapidly becoming expert in handling a moving picture camera, and often he went out alone to film some simple scene.
"I wonder how our films are coming out?" asked Blake one day, after a fresh supply Of reels had been received. "We haven't heard whether Mr. Hadley likes our work or not?"
"Hard to tell," Joe responded. But they knew a few days later, for a letter came praising most highly the work of the boys and, incidentally, that of Mr. Alcando.
"You are doing fine!" Mr. Hadley wrote. "Keep it up. The pictures will make a sensation. Don't forget to film the slide if one occurs."
"Of course we'll get that," Joe said, as he looked up at the frowning sides of Culebra Cut. "Only it doesn't seem as if one was going to happen while we're here."
"I hope it never does," declared Captain Watson, solemnly.
As the boys wanted to make pictures along the whole length of the Canal, they decided to go on through the Pedro Miguel and Miraflores locks, to the Pacific Ocean, thus making a complete trip and then come back to Culebra. Of course no one could tell when a slide would occur, and they had to take chances of filming it.
Their trip to Pedro Miguel was devoid of incident. At those locks, instead of "going up stairs" they went down, the level gradually falling so their boat came nearer to the surface of the Pacific. A mile and a half farther on they would reach Miraflores.
The tug had approached the central pier, to which it was tied, awaiting the services of the electrical locomotives, when back of them came a steamer, one of the first foreign vessels to apply to make the trip through the Isthmus.
"That fellow is coming a little too close to me for comfort," Captain Watson observed as he watched the approaching vessel.
Blake and Joe, who were standing near the commander at the pilot house, saw Mr. Alcando come up the companionway and stand on deck, staring at the big steamer. A little breeze, succeeding a dead calm, ruffled a flag at the stern of the steamer, and the boys saw the Brazilian colors flutter in the wind. At the same moment Mr. Alcando waved his hand, seemingly to someone on the steamer's deck.
"Look out where you're going!" suddenly yelled Captain Watson. Hardly had he shouted than the steamer veered quickly to one side, and then came a crash as the tug heeled over, grinding against the concrete side of the central pier.
"We're being crushed!" yelled Blake.