“No,” answered Bob firmly, “I can’t believe that.”
“You’re altogether too easy,” proceeded the consul. “If you were left here with a couple of fractured ribs, or a broken arm, Cassidy would be the only one left to command the Grampus.”
Bob shook his head. “Cassidy isn’t a brute,” said he. “I’d like to know, though, why this chap, Fingal, is putting in his oar.”
“He’s got an ax to grind. Drunk or sober, Abner Fingal always has his eye on the main chance.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s a Yank, from somewhere up in Maine, but he’s been in these waters so long he’s about half Spanish. Crooked as a dog’s hind leg—that’s Fingal for you. Sometimes he hoists the flag of Costa Rica, sometimes that of Nicaragua, and now and then the cross of St. George. But no matter what colors he sails under, he’s the same old sixpence. Too bad Cassidy fell in with him! But there’s no use of our wasting any time on those fellows. We’ve got the job of our lives ahead of us, and we’ve got to get the work started. Any arms aboard the Grampus?”
“I thought you said there wasn’t to be any fighting?”
“I hope there won’t be, my lad, and we’ll do everything possible to avoid it, but there’s always a chance of being mistaken in our calculations. How’s the submarine armed?”
“There’s a Whitehead torpedo in the torpedo room.”
“We’ll not use any torpedoes. If there’s a scrap, it will be on the land and hand to hand. Any rifles or ammunition aboard?”