CHAPTER XXIII—SPYING ON THE FILIBUSTERS
Meanwhile, at the Sanderson farm, business was proceeding at a rate that entitled the word to be spelled with a very large capital “B.”
Mr. Lawrence and his comrades, under Captain Tom’s pilotage, were hidden where, despite the darkness, they could get a very fair idea of what was going on at the pier. Joe had led Warren and the other local officers up where they could know what was going on behind the farmhouse. Sanderson, Alvarez and all hands except Captain Jonas French, were working like so many industrious ants. Two of the men were moving cases out of the new shed onto the pier. The rest were bringing cases down to the pier from the farm outbuilding. All the cases were being piled at the end of the pier.
“That means they’re going to ship everything to-night,” whispered Mr. Lawrence.
“When are you going to jump on them?” Halstead asked.
“Not until they get everything on their vessel, and get out on the water. If we showed ourselves now, and tried to arrest the crowd, what could we prove? Sanderson has a perfect right to stack any kinds of merchandise on his pier. But when we overhaul a craft out on the water, loaded down with filibuster’s supplies, and the captain of that craft can show no regular papers for such a cargo, then we have the crowd where we want them.”
It was a dull time waiting, but Inspector Lawrence was right, as a man of his experience was quite likely to be. The time slipped on, with no open move on the part of the law’s people.
“I thought I saw a rocket up north, then,” whispered Tom, at last.
“Watch and see whether there’s another,” replied Lawrence, also in a whisper. But the rocket Tom had seen was the last that Jed had derisively shot after the retreating tug. It wasn’t long, however, before the young motor boat skipper and the United States officers heard the sound of the tug approaching. They lay low, but watched, quietly until the tug had docked at the end of Sanderson’s pier.
“We’ll still have to use patience,” smiled Mr. Lawrence, turning to Tom. “This is going to be a watching game for some time yet.”
By now the gang that had been bringing cases down from the outbuilding all filed out onto the pier. The sounds of brisk but regular loading followed. An hour of this work, monotonous for the hidden watchers, followed, and then another hour. Neither Tom Halstead nor Mr. Lawrence, from their hiding place, could see the cargo piles on the pier very distinctly.
“Halstead,” inquired the inspector, “do you suppose you can safely wriggle nearer, and see how far the loading has gone?”
“I know I can,” Tom answered. “I’ll go slowly about it, and make never a sound, or show myself.”
After a few minutes, in fact, Tom got within seven or eight feet of the pier. He had crawled over the ground, and now lay flat with his head behind the roots of a tree.
From where he lay he could make out Don Emilio Alvarez standing talking with Captain Jonas French. The latter, with a swollen nose and a powder-burned cheek, was telling the gentleman from Honduras all about Prentiss’s remarkable achievement.
“Oh, say, but that was grand of old Jed!” breathed Tom, his sides shaking with suppressed laughter. “If Jed doesn’t get a Carnegie medal I’ll have my opinion of some folks!”
Don Emilio tossed away a half-burned cigar. The butt fell close by the tree roots that helped conceal the head of the young motor boat skipper. Perhaps the little brown man started slightly from something that the glowing tobacco showed him. At all events, he spoke in a whisper to Jonas French. The next instant both leaped down from the shore end of the pier, rushing at the tree.
Tom Halstead sprang up, prepared to sprint for it, but hardly had he started when he felt himself gripped savagely by French. One instant more, and Tom Halstead found himself being borne, despite his yells and furious, fighting struggles, out along the pier.
“All aboard and cast off!” yelled Jonas French, as he sped on over the boards. The last case of the cargo had just gone over the tug’s rail, and now two men sprang to cast off bow and stern hawsers. The engine room bell jangled just as French and Alvarez, with their strenuous prisoner, sprang aboard.
Inspector Lawrence and his two comrades had lost no time. They now came dashing from concealment, but they were too late. As they arrived at the end of the pier the tug was a hundred yards on her way.
At the starboard rail stood two seamen, holding Tom as in a vise. Behind the young motor boat skipper stood Don Emilio Alvarez, waving a taunting hand at the officers. Jonas French had gone forward to take command of the tug.
The seamen, powerful, swarthy fellows who looked like Portuguese, held Tom at the rail until the tug was half a mile from shore.
“Now, you can let go of him, my men,” nodded Alvarez, “but watch the young man.”
“Mr. Captain, how would you like to stroll aft and look at a nice surprise we may serve out to your friends?” The Honduran’s tone was mocking, bantering, but Tom Halstead, filled with curiosity, accepted the invitation. Alvarez led the way, the two seamen going behind the boy.
On the deck aft stood something of considerable size, covered by a canvas tarpaulin.
“Take off the covering,” directed Don Emilio. The two seamen obeyed.
“Fine, is it not?” chuckled Alvarez, pointing to a brightly polished brass cannon.
“Yes; fine—not!” spoke Tom, in a voice of mingled anger and disgust.
“It is a signal gun, such as every vessel is allowed to carry,” chuckled Don Emilio. “But our signal gun will also carry a two-inch shell—and we have plenty of ammunition. If your precious ‘Meteor’ attempts to follow us to-night we shall send her to the bottom of the ocean! You see, our cargo is needed by brave and patriotic men in Honduras, and we are desperate enough to take it there in the face of everyone.”
Then, changing his tone, Alvarez, as he glared at the boy, went on:
“Once you were good enough to ask me what I would do to you if I had you in Honduras. Well, I shall show you, for you are bound for that fine little country!”