“Get the boat hook,” commanded Alvarez. “Jump in after him if necessary. I want that meddling boy. I’ve a score to settle with him.”
But, though both remained at the rail for some time, peering down into the water, Tom Halstead did not reappear.
“Fo’ goodness’ sake,” chattered the black man soberly, “dat boy done sink, fo’ shuah. He ain’t gwine come back, boss.”
“The propeller must have struck him on the head,” declared Alvarez thoughtfully. Then, with a white face and an attempt at a light laugh, he added:
“After all, what does it matter, Pedro? That’s the quickest way of walking the plank. We didn’t mean to drown him—but we’re rid of his meddling!”
CHAPTER VIII—TOM DISCOVERS THE HEIR
Tom Halstead wasn’t drowned—not quite. The wicked seldom find safety in believing that their evil work has come out in the way that will most benefit them. We shall presently see what did happen to Tom.
Although he tried to pretend that he was not affected by the tragedy that he believed had just been enacted, Señor Alvarez, when he returned to his seat by the wheel, did not at once call for speed ahead. Instead he rolled a fresh cigarette with trembling fingers, spilling so much of the tobacco that he had to make a fresh start. When, at last, he had the thing lighted and had taken a couple of whiffs, he turned to the black man to ask:
“After all, Pedro, what difference can it make if the meddling boy chose the ocean to our company? Am I not a gentleman of Honduras, Don Emilio Alvarez? Am I not descended from Spanish grandees? Why should I bother my head because one of the American riff-raff has gone overboard!”
“Dat’s a fac’, boss. Why should yo’ bother yo’ haid?” responded Pedro, though he did not say it very heartily.