“I wonder if there was any truth at all in the don’s story?” ventured Bob.
“In what part of it?” queried Dick.
“Why, about the revolutionists capturing Port Livingstone, and the fort across the river.”
“If part o’ his yarn’s crooked,” grumbled Speake, “then I’ll gamble the whole of it’s crooked. Why, Bob? What difference does that make?”
“Well, if Port Livingstone is in the hands of the revolutionists, then we’ll be taken there, and not up the Izaral.”
“Wait!” exclaimed Dick, as a sudden thought came to him. “Don Ramon Ortega is in mighty poor business if he’s helping these revolutionists. What a two-faced swab he is! When he talked with us, last evening, he was all against the rebels; now he’s for them. What will the Spanish government say to that sort of work?”
“There’s something about Don Ramon that’s mighty puzzling,” said Bob. “He’s a scheming scoundrel, though, and it’s our business to recapture the Grampus—if we can.”
“How’ll we go to work, Bob?” asked Speake gloomily. “Every man in Fingal’s party is armed. What could five of us do ag’inst six armed men, providin’ we was able to bunch together and face ’em?”
At this point, the door leading into the periscope room opened and the don and Fingal stepped through. Bob, Dick, and Speake all started up on the entrance of the two men, but the latter carried revolvers, and another armed man stood in the doorway behind them.
“Don’t get reckless, you fellows!” warned Fingal. “We ain’t particularly anxious to hurt ye, but there’s no tellin’ what’ll happen if you try to climb over us an’ git through that door.” The burly ruffian turned toward his companion. “Fire away, don,” he added, “an tell ’em what you got on your mind.”