“Buenos dias, Señor!” exclaimed the fellow, doffing his ragged head-covering with the flourish and grace of a grandee. “Cuba is ready!” (This was the password that was to prove the bona fides of the man.)
“And we also are ready,” answered Don Hermoso. “Is the coast clear?”
“Quite clear, Señor,” answered the man, who, by the way, was a turtle fisher, inhabiting a hut on one of the small cays that stretched across the entrance of the lagoon which the yacht was approaching. “A gunboat has been cruising about the bay of late, but she steamed away yesterday morning, after communicating with the shore, and we have seen nothing of her since.”
“Then we had better proceed forthwith, and get our work over whilst the opportunity is favourable,” remarked Don Hermoso. “What is your name, by the by?”
“Pedro, Señor—Pedro Velasquez,” answered the man.
“Good!” said Don Hermoso. “Follow me up to the bridge, Pedro.
“This is our pilot, Captain,” he continued, introducing the negro to Milsom, who looked at him quizzically and responded to his bow by somewhat curtly bidding him “Good-morning!”
“He says that the coast is clear, so we may as well proceed forthwith. How do we steer, Pedro?”
“Keep an offing of a mile, to allow of room for turning, and to get a straight run in. For the present we may head for that white building on the hillside yonder,” answered Pedro.
This being clear to Milsom, the latter touched the telegraph, and the yacht proceeded, with the pirogue astern in tow. Presently three small cays detached themselves from the mainland, revealing a fine spacious expanse of land-locked water behind them; and when, a little later, the Thetis had brought the largest cay fair abeam, the pilot waved his hand, the helm was put hard a-starboard, and the vessel’s bows were pointed straight for the channel between the northernmost cay and the mainland.