The Coast of Adventure Part 23

"Ye were aye a dumb stirk at Clydebank," Macallister said to him. "Can ye no' talk instead o' glowering like a death's-head?"

"I can when I'm roused," Watson replied. "Maybe ye'll hear something frae me when I'm through wi' this bottle."

"It's the nature o' the man," Macallister informed the others and then, addressing the company, asked if anybody could sing.

No one offered to do so, and, beckoning a dark-complexioned lounger who had a guitar hung round his neck, he brought him to their table and gave him wine. Then he borrowed the guitar, and, somewhat to Grahame's surprise, began a pa.s.sable rendering of a Spanish song.

The captain beat time with a bottle, some of the company sang the refrain, and, after finishing amidst applause, Macallister tried the music of his native land. In this he was less successful, for the wild airs, written for the bagpipes, did not go well upon the melancholy guitar.

"It's no' the thing at all," Watson remarked. "Ye're just plodding through it like a seven-knot tramp against the tide. Can ye no' open the throttle and give her steam?"

Before Macallister could answer, a neatly dressed gentleman brought a bottle of vermouth from a neighboring table and joined the group.

"You like a drink?" he asked politely.

Watson nodded, and, taking the small bottle, emptied half of the liqueur into his gla.s.s.

"Yon's no' so bad," he commented when he had drained the gla.s.s.

The stranger smiled as he poured out the rest of the vermouth for Watson.

"You mend the steamboat screw?" he asked carelessly.

"Yes, my friend," Watson replied, regarding the stranger out of sleepy looking eyes.

"How it come loose?"

"Tail-nut slacked up when the engines ran away in heavy weather."

"You get bad weather, then?"

"Bad enough," Watson answered.

Grahame gave him a cautious glance, but his face was expressionless. It was obvious that the stranger had mistaken him for the _Enchantress's_ engineer. Watson must have realized this, but he had given the fellow misleading answers, and Grahame thought he need not run the risk of trying to warn him. He wondered, though, how far Macallister had taken Watson into his confidence.

"Small boat," said the stranger; "you find her wet when it blow. What you load?"

"Mahogany and dyewood, when it's to be got."

"Then you go to Manzanillo; perhaps to Honduras. But she not carry much; not room for big logs below."

"The big ones sit on deck," said Watson stolidly.

The man ordered some cognac, but Grahame imagined that he was wasting his hospitality. Though the Scot's legs might grow unsteady, his head would remain clear.

"There is cargo that pay better than wood," his companion suggested with a meaning smile.

"Maybe," agreed Watson. "But ye run a risk in carrying it."

"Ver' true. And when you go to sea?"

"I canna' tell. The high-press' piston must come up. She's loosened a ring."

The stranger made a few general remarks and then strolled away. He had learned, at the cost of a bottle of vermouth and some brandy, that Watson was the _Enchantress's_ engineer, and the vessel would not sail for a day or two.

Grahame chuckled. He meant to leave port the next morning.

Having spent some time at the cafe, he felt that he could now leave his guests. They might, perhaps, indulge in boisterous amus.e.m.e.nts but he did not think they would come to harm. Indeed, if anybody were hurt in a row it would more likely be the citizens who came into collision with them.

"All right; I've had enough," Walthew said when Grahame touched him.

"Mack's going to sing again, and I can't stand for that."

The moon had sunk behind the white houses as they crossed the plaza, and Grahame kept down the middle, avoiding the crowd near the bandstand and the narrow mouths of the streets.

"Who was that fellow talking to Watson?" Walthew asked.

"I don't know, but he was interested in our affairs. They have a good secret service in these countries, and we're open to suspicion. We're obviously not yachtsmen, and the boat's too small for a regular trader."

"Do you think the man's an agent of the government we're up against?"

"I don't know. I'd hardly expect them to send their spies along the coast; but, then, these States may keep each other informed about the movements of dangerous people. Anyway, there'd be an excuse for trouble if they searched us and found the rifles."

"Sure," said Walthew thoughtfully. "It's fortunate we light out to-morrow."

He looked round as they reached the end of the plaza. The band had stopped, and the ring of lights round its stand was broken as the lamps went out, but a broad, illuminated track extended from the front of the cafe. The thinning crowd moved across it: a stream of black figures silhouetted against the light. Everything else was dark, and except for the soft patter of feet the city was quiet; but it had a sinister look, and Walthew instinctively kept away from the trees in the small _alameda_ they skirted. He was an Anglo-Saxon, and would not shrink from a danger that could be faced in daylight, but he hated the stealthy attack in the dark and the hidden intrigues the Latin half-breeds delight in.

When they reached the beach he stumbled over a small anvil lying near high-water mark, and after another few steps trod upon a hammer.

"They have left all their tools about," he said. "Shall we call the boys and put the truck on board?"

"I think not," Grahame replied. "It's the marine engineer's privilege to make as much mess as he likes, and he generally resents its being cleaned up without his permission. Besides, their leaving the things suggests that the job's not finished."

They pushed off the dinghy and boarded the steamer. The tide had flowed round her, but she would not float for an hour or two, and Walthew, sitting on the rail, glanced down the harbor. It was now very dark, but the water had a phosph.o.r.escent gleam. The _Enchantress's_ cable was marked by lambent spangles, and there was a flicker of green fire along the tramp's dark side. Her riding-lights tossed as she swung with the languid swell, and away at the harbor mouth two bright specks pierced the dark. A small gunboat had anch.o.r.ed at dusk, and as the fort had fired a salute she was evidently a foreigner. Walthew felt curious about her nationality, and wondered why she lay where she commanded the entrance instead of mooring near the town. Grahame, however, did not seem disturbed, and they presently sat down to a game of chess in the saloon.

Although the ports were open, it was very hot, and when the kerosene lamp flickered in the draughts an unpleasant smell filled the room. The men felt languid and their attention wandered from the dragging game. At last Walthew threw the pieces roughly into the box.

"You'd have seen what I was getting after with the bishop if you hadn't been thinking of something else," he said. "It's been a mighty long game; Mack ought to have come back."

Grahame nodded agreement, and they went out on deck. The town was quiet, and, so far as they could see, only one light burned in it, between the plaza and the _alameda_. Then an uproar broke out, the clamor reaching them distinctly over the night water. Grahame, running to the engine-room, shook the drowsy half-breed on watch and ordered him to stir the fires, which had been lighted and damped. Then he dropped over the rail into the dinghy with Walthew, and as soon as they jumped ash.o.r.e they started for the plaza on a run.

"Sounds like a _jamboree_," Walthew said. "When things begin to hum you'll find Mack somewhere around; and that tramp captain looked as if he could get on a jag."

"He had a wicked eye," Grahame breathlessly agreed.

As they entered the plaza, a noisy crowd, which seemed to be getting larger rapidly, surged toward them. In the background the cafe Bolivar was still lighted, and close at hand a lamp burned at the top of a tall pole. For all that, it was difficult to make out anything except a ma.s.s of people pressing about a smaller group, and Grahame roughly flung two or three excited citizens aside before he could see what was going on.

Then he was not surprised to note a party of three Britons retreating in good order before an obviously hostile mob. The tramp captain had lost his hat and his jacket was torn, but he carried a champagne bottle like a club, and his hot, red face had a pugnacious look. Macallister trailed the leg of a broken iron chair, and Watson seemed to have armed himself with part of the chair's back. He was hurling virulent epithets at the throng, while Macallister sang a sentimental ballad in an unsteady voice.

As Grahame and Walthew drew nearer, the crowd closed in as if to cut off the others' retreat, but a shout from Watson dominated the growing uproar.