“I didn’t know about that,” said Bethune. “They may have bought the cargo for some particular purpose, for which they afterwards found it wouldn’t be required, and now want to sell some off.”
“Then Kenwardine must have more money than I thought.”
“The money may be Richter’s,” Bethune replied. “However, since we’ll now have coal enough to last until Fuller sends some out, I don’t know that we have any further interest in the matter.”
He glanced keenly at Dick’s thoughtful face; and then, as the latter did not answer, talked about something else until he got up to go. After he had gone, Dick leaned back in his chair with a puzzled frown. He had met Richter and rather liked him, but the fellow was a German, and it was strange that he should choose an English partner for his speculations, as he seemed to have done. But while Kenwardine was English, Dick’s papers had been stolen at his house, and his distrust of the man grew stronger. There was something suspicious about this coal deal, but he could not tell exactly what his suspicions pointed to, and by and by he took up the plan of a culvert they were to begin next morning.
A few days later, Jake and he sat, one night, in the stern of the launch, which lay head to sea about half a mile from the Adexe wharf. The promised coal had not arrived, and, as fuel was running very short at the concrete mill, Dick had gone to see that a supply was sent. It was late when he reached Adexe, and found nobody in authority about, but three loaded lighters were moored at the wharf, and a gang of peons were trimming the coal that was being thrown on board another. Ahead of the craft lay a small tug with steam up. As the half-breed foreman declared that he did not know whether the coal was going to Santa Brigida or not, Dick boarded the tug and found her Spanish captain drinking caña with his engineer. Dick thought one looked at the other meaningly as he entered the small, hot cabin.
“I suppose it’s Señor Fuller’s coal in the barges, and we’re badly in want of it,” he said. “As you have steam up, you’ll start soon.”
“We start, yes,” answered the skipper, who spoke some English, and then paused and shrugged. “I do not know if we get to Santa Brigida to-night.”
“Why?” Dick asked. “There’s not very much wind, and it’s partly off the land.”
The half-breed engineer described in uncouth Castilian the difficulties he had had with a defective pump and leaking glands, and Dick, who did not understand much of it, went back to his launch. Stopping the craft a short distance from the harbor, he said to Jake: “We’ll wait until they start. Somehow I don’t think they meant to leave to-night if I hadn’t turned them out.”
Jake looked to windward. There was a moon in the sky, which was, however, partly obscured by driving clouds. The breeze was strong, but, blowing obliquely off the land did not ruffle the sea much near the beach. A long swell, however, worked in, and farther out the white tops of the combers glistened in the moonlight. Now and then a fresher gust swept off the shadowy coast and the water frothed in angry ripples about the launch.