Inspector Lawrence and his two comrades had lost no time. They now came dashing from concealment, but they were too late. As they arrived at the end of the pier the tug was a hundred yards on her way.
At the starboard rail stood two seamen, holding Tom as in a vise. Behind the young motor boat skipper stood Don Emilio Alvarez, waving a taunting hand at the officers. Jonas French had gone forward to take command of the tug.
The seamen, powerful, swarthy fellows who looked like Portuguese, held Tom at the rail until the tug was half a mile from shore.
“Now, you can let go of him, my men,” nodded Alvarez, “but watch the young man.”
“Mr. Captain, how would you like to stroll aft and look at a nice surprise we may serve out to your friends?” The Honduran’s tone was mocking, bantering, but Tom Halstead, filled with curiosity, accepted the invitation. Alvarez led the way, the two seamen going behind the boy.
On the deck aft stood something of considerable size, covered by a canvas tarpaulin.
“Take off the covering,” directed Don Emilio. The two seamen obeyed.
“Fine, is it not?” chuckled Alvarez, pointing to a brightly polished brass cannon.
“Yes; fine—not!” spoke Tom, in a voice of mingled anger and disgust.
“It is a signal gun, such as every vessel is allowed to carry,” chuckled Don Emilio. “But our signal gun will also carry a two-inch shell—and we have plenty of ammunition. If your precious ‘Meteor’ attempts to follow us to-night we shall send her to the bottom of the ocean! You see, our cargo is needed by brave and patriotic men in Honduras, and we are desperate enough to take it there in the face of everyone.”