From the ship a large yawl had put out. As she approached the wharf it could be seen that she was loaded to the gunwales with cases and boxes. She drew up close to the wharf and the men fell to unloading her, lifting up the boxes as though they were weighted with feathers instead of metal and explosives.
Down the shore, at the same time, behind a huge rock, crouched a rough looking tramp. His interest in the yawl and its cargo was even keener than that of the lascars.
"Supplies," he muttered, moving back cautiously and up the bluff. "I wonder where they are taking them?"
Marcus Del Mar had chosen an old and ruined hotel not far from the shore as his storehouse and arsenal. Already he was there, pacing up and down the rotted veranda which shook under his weight.
"Come, hurry up," he called impatiently as the first of the men carrying a huge box on his back made his appearance up the hill.
One after another they trooped in and Del Mar led them to the hotel, unlocking the door.
Inside, the old hostelry was quite as ramshackle as outside. What had once been the dining-room now held nothing but a long, rickety table and several chairs.
"Put them there," ordered Del Mar, directing the disposal of the cases.
"Then you can begin work. I shall be back soon."
He went out and as he did so, two men seized guns from a corner near-by and followed him. On the veranda he paused and turned to the men.
"If any one approaches the house—any one, you understand—make him a prisoner and send for me," he ordered. "If he resists, shoot."