Fingal slouched along with the thwartship roll of a sailor with stable ground under him. At his back came half a dozen nondescript men, of various shades of color from coal black to light yellow.
These men, no doubt, formed part of the rebel army. They were all barefooted, their clothes were ragged, and they wore straw hats. Each had a machete strapped about his waist, but there the uniformity of their accouterments ceased. Two had no arms apart from the machetes; one of the remaining four had a long-barreled, muzzle-loading rifle, and the other three had revolvers. Fingal had no rifle, but there was a belt about his waist that supported a six-shooter over his hip.
The file was still talking as it passed the two boys, but it was Spanish talk, and neither Bob nor Dick could understand anything that was said.
Without seeing the boys, the file swept on and vanished around another bend. Bob drew a long breath of relief.
“We’re out of that mess, Dick,” he murmured, getting up and stepping back into the path. “I guess we’ve settled all doubts about Cassidy and Fingal. Fingal’s here, and I’ll bet something handsome Cassidy can’t be very far off.”
“Cassidy’s trying to down us,” growled Dick, “and that’s as plain as the nose on your face. The old scoundrel! He ought to be trussed up at a grating and pounded with the ‘cat’ for this. I never thought it of him! Where do you suppose that pack is going?”
“They’re looking for the Grampus, I guess.”
“And the old Grampus is ten feet under water! If Gaines is next to his job, he’s fixed things so they won’t be able to see even the periscope ball.”
“Trust Gaines to do everything possible. I don’t think the submarine is in any particular danger, but we couldn’t help her any if she were. We’ll keep on and see where this trouble road lands us.”
“All right! Luck seems to be on our side, so far, and here’s hoping that it will stay with us.”