“Didn’t I tell you that this thing didn’t look just right?” demanded Chase, in an excited whisper. “That darkey has made a mistake, and brought us to the wrong house.”
“But how in the name of sense could he do that?” asked Wilson, utterly confounded. “He must have known where Walter was when he gave him that note. By the way, let me look at it a moment.”
Chase handed out the letter, and was more amazed and alarmed than ever by the expression that settled on his friend’s face as he ran his eye over the missive. “What’s the matter now?” he asked. “Anything else wrong?”
“Nothing much,” was the answer; “only that’s not Walter Gaylord’s writing—that’s all.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Chase, jumping from his chair.
“O, it is the truth, as you will find out when you meet Walter again. I can tell his writing as far as I can see it.”
“Then who wrote this letter?”
“I wish I knew. Somebody has humbugged us very nicely, and I believe that Captain Conway and Mr. Bell are at the bottom of it.”
“Let’s jump out of this window and make the best of our way back to town,” exclaimed Chase, almost beside himself with excitement and terror. “There’s no knowing what this old Creole intends to do to us.”
“And there’s no knowing what may happen to the Banner in our absence. What if those deserters should run off with her? Here we are in Cuba, without a cent in our pockets, and if we should lose the yacht how would we ever get home?”