CHAPTER XXV
When Rutile ran down to Hamburg to see what he could learn about the gun-running expeditions that Lillian Byrd had warned him were leaving that port he had nothing in mind beyond making a few inquiries which, if it seemed best, he might tip off to the Brazilian government. Circumstances, however, played into his hands and led him into a far more extensive adventure than he had foreseen.
In early life Rutile had intended to be a sailor. He had been appointed a cadet at the naval academy at Annapolis and had gone through the full four years course there and the requisite two succeeding years of sea service. If Uncle Sam had been willing he would have remained in the navy. But in those days Uncle Sam had no navy worth speaking about, and every year he deliberately turned adrift about two-thirds of the gallant young fellows whom he had been training for six years. Only about a score of each class graduatedreceived commissions. Rutile was one of those dropped with a year’s pay.
Balked in following his chosen profession the young fellow had gone in for diplomacy. But he had never lost his fondness for the sea, and being blessed (or cursed) with abundance of money, had continued to keep in touch with sea life and to spend a month or more afloat every year. His father had been German born and he himself had been familiar with the language from childhood. He was thus qualified for the task he had set himself.
Arrived at Hamburg his first move was to take lodgings in a cheap quarter of the town and there to slip into such clothes as a petty ship’s officer would be likely to wear. These donned, he went out and wandered along the water front, chatting with sailors and pretending to be on the lookout for a berth as wireless operator, a calling that he had chosen chiefly because he was very certain that no ship’s captain was likely to put his good faith to the test by offering him a job. Incidentally he kept his ears open for news of the filibusters.
To a certain extent his task proved surprisingly simple. A few drinks and a few hours loafing toldhim that Miss Byrd’s suspicions were well-founded. The munitions of war supplied to the rebels in Southern Brazil had been shipped from Hamburg, practically without concealment, a few months before. He learned, moreover, that three or four ships supposed to be similarly laden had recently sailed for South American ports; “and yonder,” continued his informant, pointing with the stem of his pipe; “yonder lies the flagship. They say she’ll be sailing soon.”
Rutile needed no second glance to identify the vessel indicated. She was Ouro Preto’s yacht, which he had often seen. Nevertheless, he loafed out upon the docks for a nearer view.
Work was being knocked off for the day as he strolled to the end of the stone pier and stared across the dirty water to where the yacht was lying. He noticed that she had steam up, and guessed that his informant was right, and that she intended to leave very soon indeed. As he watched he saw a steam launch leave her side and come puffing toward the shore.
Dusk was falling fast, and at last he turned away, feeling that he had accomplished all that he had come down to do.
He knew that it was no use to try to stop theyacht’s sailing; the very openness with which the thing had been carried on was proof of the connivance of the authorities. His best, and indeed his only course was to hurry back to Berlin and notify both the United States and Brazilian governments.
He was about to step off the pier when he saw two men coming toward him. One of them he recognized as the man with whom he had been talking not long before. As they drew near this man jerked his head in his direction and spoke to the other.
“That’s him,” he said. Rutile heard the words distinctly.
The second man, who was clearly an officer of some sort, changed his course slightly, and stopped just in front of the American.
“I understand you are looking for a berth as wireless operator,” he said gruffly, in German.
Rutile concealed his astonishment as well as he could. “I am,” he answered, promptly, in the same tongue.
“Good.” The officer turned to the man who accompanied him, and handed him a coin. “All right!” he said. “Be off.”
Then he swung back to Rutile. “My name’s Caspar,” he said. “I’m second mate of the yachtWindbird. That’s her yonder.” He indicated Ouro Preto’s yacht. “Our operator took suddenly ill and I just brought him ashore.” Rutile remembered the launch he had seen leaving the yacht. “We’re sailing in an hour and want an operator in a hurry and the Marconi people can’t supply us in less than twenty-four hours. If you’re sure you’re qualified and would like the berth you can have it.”
Before the man had half finished Rutile had seen what was coming and had done some rapid thinking. Mad as he admitted his acceptance of the proposition would be, it nevertheless tempted him strongly. He was an adventurous fellow, was Rutile; and the danger of the thing appealed to him. As wireless operator he must necessarily be trusted to an extent that would give him a chance to find out something really valuable about what he had come to believe was a great political conspiracy. On the other hand, it was a good deal easier to get into such an adventure than it would be to get out of it. And what would the Ambassador say?
These thoughts flashed like lightning through his mind, but did not mirror themselves in his face. He had not been in diplomatic training fornothing. When the mate stopped he was ready to answer.
“I’ll take it,” he declared.
“Good! Can you come now?”
“Now?” Events were moving too quick even for Rutile’s hasty nature.
“Yes!” impatiently. “It’s now or not at all. I told you we sailed within an hour.”
Rutile shook his head. “I’ve got to have half an hour,” he declared positively. “I’ve got a room near here and I’ve got to pay for it and get my dunnage. But I’ll be ready in half an hour.”
The mate hesitated. “I suppose that’s got to do,” he acquiesced at last. “Yonder’s the launch. I’ll wait for you half an hour and not a minute longer. Hurry.”
Rutile hurried, and was back within the time allowed. He had spent half of it in talking with the Ambassador over the long-distance telephone, and most of the other half in buying an outfit for the trip.
“I’m taking you on trust,” observed the mate, as the launch puffed toward the Windbird. “But the old man won’t. He trusts nobody. If you’re not qualified you’d better say so now. It isn’t quite so long a swim ashore from here.”
Rutile grinned. “Oh! I’m qualified,” he insisted. “What system have you?”
“Marconi!”
“That’s all right. I understand it perfectly. You’ll remember that I’m taking a good deal on trust, too. Where are we bound?”
“Barbadoes first. Afterwards—who knows? We’re going down to meet the owner and then we’ll go where he says.”
“Humph!” Rutile considered. “I guess I’ll only sign for Barbadoes,” he declared. “By the time we get there I’ll know whether I care to stay or not.”