The consul looked around cautiously and then hitched his chair closer to Bob’s.
“I haven’t been idle, Bob Steele,” he went on, lowering his voice. “I have had spies at work, and one of them has reported the exact location of the revolutionists’ camp. Acting as a log cutter, he came close to the place. This man will lead you to the exact spot—and, as good luck has it, he’s a pilot and knows the coast.”
“I should think,” hazarded Bob, “that the United States government could make a demand on the president of the republic where all this lawless work is going on, and force him to rescue Mr. Coleman.”
The consul laughed.
“You don’t know Central America, my lad,” he answered. “It’s as hard for the president of the republic to get at the revolutionists as for anybody else. Meanwhile, Coleman’s in danger. We can’t wait for a whole lot of useless red-tape proceedings. We’ve got to strike, and to strike hard and quick. But we’ve got to do it secretly, quietly—getting Coleman away before the revolutionists know what we’re doing. Understand?”
Bob nodded.
“We’ll not do any fighting if it’s possible to avoid it,” proceeded the consul, “for that would merely complicate matters. Besides, what could a handful of strangers do against a horde of rascally niggers? Softly is the word. We’ve got to jump into ’em, and then out again quicker than scat—and when we come out, we’ve got to have Coleman.”
“Are you going with us, Mr. Jordan?” asked Bob.
The consul started and gave Bob a bored look.