“Tell him to try it himself, Sam,” said Rawlins, and very reluctantly and gingerly Jules obeyed Sam’s instructions, wound the crank, placed a record, and uttered a yell of mingled triumph and delight as he found the imprisoned devil obeyed him as readily as it did the American.
“Well, he’s all set up for life,” laughed Rawlins. “All the rest of the whole shooting match can go to blazes as far as he’s concerned. He’ll wear the blamed thing out making it work overtime. But let’s be going. Sam, tell Jules he and his bunch’ll have to show us the way out of here. I’m all twisted and couldn’t find the bay in a month of Sundays.”
But Jules absolutely refused to leave. He had no intention of giving his new acquisition any opportunity of getting away and, as the Americans departed, following the other negroes whom Jules had ordered to guide them to the bay, the old fellow was squatting on his haunches at the mouth of the cavern, a broad grin on his wrinkled black face while, from within, came the strains of the overture from Faust.
“Pretty good ringer for old Mephisto himself!” chuckled Rawlins, as they scrambled down the hill towards the boats.
Pushing through the water plants and into the narrow channel, the canoe, followed by the boat, moved rapidly among the mangroves. Soon a wider waterway was reached, and for a time this was followed, then they slipped into a small lagoon completely encircled by an apparently impenetrable barrier of trees, but, without hesitation, the negroes headed their craft across the little lake. With swinging strokes of their paddles they urged their craft forwards with redoubled speed and then, with a sharp cry of warning to the white men behind them, they crouched low in their dug-out. Straight for the dense foliage shot the canoe, there was a swaying of low-growing branches, the negroes’ craft disappeared from sight and the next instant the boat had slipped through the screen of leaves and was floating on open water in a dark, tunnel-like passage through the trees. Just ahead was the canoe, with the negroes again paddling forward.
“Well I’ll be hanged!” cried Rawlins, “so this is their front gate, eh? Wonder how the dickens they ever found it!”
Straight as a canal, the channel led and five minutes later a second wall of foliage blocked the way. But, as before, the canoe was urged ahead and crashed through the barrier followed by the boat. As the last branches swayed back into place behind them, the boys and their companions glanced about in surprise. They were floating upon the broad waters of the bay; an unbroken line of close-growing trees without a trace of opening stretched in their rear and far ahead they could see the row of palms upon the bar which marked the hiding place of their submarine.
“Well, I’ll be shot!” cried Rawlins, as he swept his eyes about. “We’ve passed this place a dozen times and never knew it. No wonder we couldn’t find their hang-out. Why, I thought that was all solid land!”
A moment later they were pulling, across the open bay. The Martinicans had vanished as if by magic in the dark green foliage and two miles away were their waiting friends.
Half an hour afterwards they were clambering aboard their sub-sea craft and regaling the amazed and wondering Henderson with the story of their adventures, their discoveries and the escape of the men, while below, the quartermaster, surrounded by his mates, was relating a yarn which put the Arabian Nights to shame.