“Let’s see, it’s a little over two weeks since the letter came, is it not?” asked Captain Saunders on the occasion of this birthday entertainment.
“Yes, two weeks ago Tuesday.”
“He said that they expected to leave within a fortnight?”
“Yes.”
“Then he is due now at any time.”
“I hardly expect him so soon,” said Mr. Dartmoor. “The Indian runner, accustomed to the country, and having nothing to carry, would be able to make much better time through the mountains than Hope-Jones, Ferguson, and my son, burdened with their camp utensils, and with the samples of ore. So I would not be surprised should another week elapse before their arrival.”
“You are doubtless correct. I had not thought of those matters.”
“Wouldn’t it be jolly though if they should arrive unexpectedly to-night!” exclaimed Carl Saunders, and Louis added, “I should say so.”
They were interrupted by a loud ring at the bell.
“I wonder if it can be possible!” exclaimed the elder Dartmoor boy, springing to his feet and rushing out into the hall. All conversation ceased, and they listened intently. But it was not the voice of Harvey that sounded when the door was opened. The tones, however, they recognized as those of a very dear friend, General Matajente, the smallest officer in the Peruvian army, a man who had been a captain in the navy during the administration of President Prado, but who had joined the land forces of Pierola and had rendered that leader such signal service that he had been rapidly promoted.