“We don’t belong to the Stella, either. We came here in a private yacht, on our own private business, and know nothing about your transactions with Captain Conway.”
“Gracias á Dios!” cried the Cuban; and the words came out from between his clenched teeth in a way that Chase did not like.
“Hold easy. Don’t get angry until you hear my explanation. Remember that we have not tried to sail under false colors, since we have been here at your house. You did not ask us who we were, did you? If you had given us the opportunity, we should have been glad to have appeared before you in our true characters, and to have explained the reason for our visit.”
Having thus introduced his subject, Chase cleared his throat, thrust his hands into his pockets, and began a hurried and rather disconnected account of the events which had brought them to Cuba. The Don stood like a man in a dream. He was not listening to what the young sailor said, but was pondering upon some words he had uttered a few moments before. Suddenly he interrupted him.
“Your true character!” he exclaimed furiously. “Enough! That is all I wish to hear from you. I suspected you from the first. You have told me who you are not, and now I shall ascertain for myself who you are. The Stella is at the village, I know, for one of my negroes saw her there. I shall introduce you into the presence of Captain Conway before you are an hour older; and when he sees you, he will probably be able to tell me whether or not you came here by his orders. If he cannot vouch for you, you will find yourselves in serious trouble, I can tell you. I am now going to the stable after some horses, and you and your companion will move up into the shadow of this storehouse and remain there, until I return, under the eye of my overseer, whom I shall instruct to shoot you down if you make the least attempt at escape.”
Chase listened to this speech in utter amazement. His under jaw dropped down, and for a few seconds he stood gazing stupidly at the Don, who turned and began an earnest conversation in Spanish with his overseer—the man who had released the boys from the wine-cellar. At last he recovered himself in some measure, and made a bungling attempt to repair the damage he had done.
“I say, Don!” he exclaimed, “now you are laboring under another mistake, quite as bad as the first. You take us for Spanish sympathizers—I know you do, but we are not. We’ve got no interest in this fight, and we don’t care which whips. I mean—you know—of course you Cubans are in the right, and we hope you will succeed in establishing your independence. I wish we had a whole cargo of arms for you, but we haven’t. I wish the Banner was loaded so deep with them that she was on the point of sinking, but she isn’t. O dear! I wish he would stop talking to that man and listen to me. I could set everything right in a few minutes. Speak to him, Wilson.”
But his friend paid as little attention to him as the Don did. He stood narrowly watching the two men, and although he could not understand a word of their conversation, he knew pretty nearly what they were talking about. It was plain enough to him, too, that the overseer was as angry at them as his master was. He raised his lantern to allow its beams to fall full in their faces, scowled fiercely at each of them in turn, and then throwing aside his cloak and laying his hand on the butt of one of his pistols, motioned to them to follow him to the storehouse. As they obeyed the gesture, the Don hurried down the lane, not however without stopping long enough to tell the captives that the overseer was a good shot, and that an attempt to run away from him would be dangerous.
Never was a boy more astounded and alarmed than Chase was at that moment. Reaching the storehouse, he flung himself on the ground beside it in a state of utter dejection and misery. He looked at Wilson, who seated himself by his side, but even had there been light enough for him to see the expression that rested on the face of his friend, he would have found no encouragement there. Wilson was almost disheartened himself. Things looked even darker now than when they were confined in the wine-cellar—a state of affairs for which his companion was alone to blame. But Wilson had no fault to find. The mischief was done and could not be undone; and like a sensible fellow, he determined to make the best of it, and say nothing about it.
“Don’t I wish I had never seen or heard of the Sportsman’s Club!” said Chase, feebly. “I wonder if that overseer understands English? Try him, Wilson. I want to say something to you.”