“Cases of arms!” repeated Chase.
“Smuggle!” echoed Wilson. “We know a smuggler, but we never——”
“Don’t stop to talk,” interrupted the Don, almost fiercely; and as he spoke he seized the boys by their arms, and dragged them along the hall and down a flight of rickety steps that led into the cellar. Chase and Wilson, more perplexed than ever, tried to gain his ear for a moment, but he seemed all of a sudden to have been struck both deaf and dumb, for he would say nothing or listen to nothing, but hurried them along through utter darkness, and finally, after giving them both a strong push, released his hold of them. A moment afterward the boys heard a door softly closed behind them, and a key turned in a lock. Filled with consternation, they stood for a few seconds speechless and motionless, listening intently, and afraid to move for fear of coming in contact with something in the darkness. Chase was the first to break the silence.
“Well, this beats all the scrapes I ever got into,” said he. “Do you begin to see through it yet?”
“I believe I do,” replied Wilson. “The last words that old Creole uttered, explain the matter clearly. He takes us for smugglers, and imagines that we have come here with a cargo of small-arms.”
“How did he get that impression?” asked Chase, who wanted to see how far his friend’s opinions coincided with his own.
“Through the note that negro gave him.”
“Who wrote that note?”
“Mr. Bell. He saw us come into the harbor, and he would have been dull indeed if he could not guess what brought us there. He and his crew have set themselves at work to outwit us, as they outwitted the revenue captain in the Cove.”
“And they have accomplished their object, and got us into a pretty mess besides. They are altogether too smart for us. What’s that?”