It should be explained, however, that this system was not applied to individuals selected for the purpose of exploration and research. Four parties, well-armed and equipped, were sent out to explore both sections of the island. These expeditions had numerous objects in view: to determine, if possible, whether the island had ever been visited or occupied by man; to determine the character of the fruits and vegetables; extent and variety of animal life; the natural food resources, etc. The groups were made up of men familiar with nature in the rough. Lieutenant Platt headed one group, Professor Flattner another, a Bolivian ranchman and an English horse buyer the remaining two.
Abel Landover was to have gone out with the first day's shift to work on the road through the wood. He refused point-blank to leave the ship. This state of affairs lasted through the next two days, the banker stubbornly ignoring the advice and finally the commands of Captain Trigger. In the meantime he had been joined in his rebellion,—a word used here for want of a milder one,—by half a dozen gentlemen who did a great deal of talking about how the Turks were maltreating the Armenians, but, for fear of being suspected of pro-Germanism, studiously avoided pre-war dissertations on the conduct of the Russians.
The first shift's turn had come around once more in the natural order of things, and practically all of the men had been landed. Landover had refused to go out with either of the other shifts. He had stood his ground obstinately. Percival's ultimatum, sweeping like wildfire throughout the ship's company, brought nearly every one on board to the rails to see whether he would carry out his threat. Would he dare throw the great capitalist, this mighty Croesus, this autocrat, into the sea?
The first boat carried off Nicklestick, Block, Shine and the other objectors. Landover was in his stateroom.
“Just a minute,” called out Percival to the oarsmen, as they waited for him to take his place in the last boat. “We're shy a man, I see.” His eye ranged the deck. His face was a sickly yellow. It would have been white save for the tan. “Where is Landover?” he demanded of the crowd.
Some one answered: “He went to his cabin a couple of minutes ago,” and another volunteered: “It's Number 9 on the promenade deck.”
Half a minute later Percival rapped peremptorily on the door of Number 9.
“We're waiting for you, Mr. Landover,” he called out.
“Wait and be damned,” came strongly from the stateroom. “The door is unlocked. If you put a foot inside this room, I'll shoot you like a dog.”
“You will have the satisfaction of killing a mighty good dog,” said Percival, and threw the door wide open. He did not enter the room, however. Standing just outside the door, he faced the banker. Landover stood in the centre of the luxurious cabin, a revolver in his hand.