“He is the same old Hockley,” murmured Mark to Frank, when he got the chance. “His friendliness was all put on.”
“No, I don’t think that, exactly,” returned Frank. “I think he meant well, but he’s one of the kind who won’t let matters rest. I suppose it galls him to think I had the better of that fight, and some day he’ll try to square accounts.”
“In that case, Frank, you’ll have to be on guard.”
“Oh, don’t worry; I’ll keep my eyes open.”
As my old readers know, La Guayra is only a small seaport, located on a stretch of land between the water and the high cliffs of the mountains. It is a dirty, ill-smelling place, and nobody lives there who can help it.
“I’m glad we haven’t to stop here long,” said Sam. “It smells like dead fish and oil mixed. Where is the steamer?”
An hour later found them on board of the craft, an old-fashioned, tub sort of an affair named the Chester. She was an English boat devoted to the carrying trade between Trinidad, La Guayra, Kingston, and other points in the Caribbean Sea. Her captain was named Jason Sudlip, and he was a burly fellow, with a reddish face and black, piercing eyes.
“This boat ought to be called the Chestnut, instead of the Chester,” remarked Darry, after he and the others had made a tour of inspection. “She’s old enough to vote twice over. It’s a wonder she hasn’t gone to pieces long ago.”
“Better not let the captain hear you talk like that,” came from Sam. “We’re lucky to get passage, so I was told. Steamers for Kingston and Havana are scarce.”
“She is no such steamer as brought us down from New York, that’s sure,” put in Mark. “But knocking around as we are, we’ll have to take what comes.”