“Going with you?” he drawled. “Why not? It isn’t often we have anything exciting, here in Honduras, and I wouldn’t miss the chance for a farm. Coleman lives where he never knows what minute is going to be his last, and he’s continually guessing as to where the lightning is going to strike, and when. About all I do is lie around in a hammock, fight mosquitoes, take a feed now and then at Government House, and drop in at an English club here every evening for a rubber at whist. It’s deadly monotonous, my lad, to a fellow who comes from the land of snap and ginger.”
“I’ll be glad to have you along,” said Bob. “When had we better start?”
“This afternoon.” The consul picked his solar hat off the railing of the veranda and got up. “I’m going over to the boarding house,” he added, “to make arrangements for Captain Nemo, junior. It’s just around the corner, and I’ll only be gone a few minutes. Make yourself comfortable until I return.”
“I’ll get along all right,” answered Bob.
Jordan got up, descended the steps, swung away down the street, and quickly vanished around a corner.
The scenery was all new and strange to Bob, and he allowed his eyes to wander up and down the street. The houses were white bungalows, some of them surrounded by high white fences, and with tufted palms nodding over their roofs.
Negro women passed by with baskets on their heads, dark-skinned laborers in bell-crowned straw hats slouched up and down, and a group of tawny soldiers from a West India regiment, wearing smart Zouave uniforms and turbans, jogged past.
As soon as Bob had exhausted the sights in his immediate vicinity, he lay back in the chair and gave his thoughts to the captain.
He had always liked Nemo, junior. The captain had been a good friend to Bob Steele and his chums, and the young motorist hoped in his heart that his present illness would not take a serious turn.
While Bob was turning the subject over in his mind, two men came along the walk and started for the steps leading to the veranda of the consulate.