“Yes.”
“Then you’re the person I wish to talk with. I am Don Ramon Ortega.”
Bob was deeply impressed by the name. Everybody in Belize had a good word to say for Don Ramon Ortega, the Spanish consul. He was a chivalrous gentleman of the old school, a friend of the United States when many other of his countrymen cherished a grudge against the country, and a philanthropic and kindly man in all his dealings.
“I shall be very glad to have you come aboard, Don Ortega,” called Bob respectfully, “but it is against our rules to allow more than one stranger aboard the Grampus at any one time.”
“Then I will come alone.”
Bob and Dick got out of the tower and each hurled a rope to those forward and aft on the sailboat. After the two boats had been hauled as close together as possible, a plank was shoved over the side of the sailboat and left with its outer end resting on the rounded deck of the submarine. Don Ramon turned and handed something to Sambo.
“Haul off,” said he, “and wait until you receive a signal from me. If you don’t receive a signal, put back to the landing.”
“All right, boss.”
Bob was a little surprised at this order, but presumed that he would soon be told why it had been given. Reaching out, he caught the don’s hand and helped him off the end of the plank.
“I must speak with you immediately,” said the don. “Can we go somewhere for a little private talk?”