There was silence for a time, each boy being occupied with his own thoughts. Clay was first to speak.
“What is your notion about the disappearance of Alex and Jule—mysterious, eh?”
“Decidedly so,” was the reply.
“Still,” Clay continued, “the fact that Captain Joe went with them gives the affair the appearance of an excursion to the shore. If they left the boat, clothed as they were, intending to be absent only a few minutes, the boat, being under steerway, might be too swift for them and get beyond their reach before they realized what was going on. Anyway, it is a bad mix-up, and I wish we were safely out of it. Now, what’s that?”
“That” was a movement of the mob on shore. They were headed for the river bank and looked dangerous.
“Here’s where the automatics come into play,” Paul suggested. “I can shoot, if I can’t walk.”
But right here a new factor entered the case. “Tommy,” the parrot, opening the conversation.
“Seven men on a dead man’s chest! Ho! Ho! Ho! And a bottle of rum!”
The parrot, wandering from perch to table, from locker to window ledge, lifted up his voice in an uncanny jumble of words until the cabin rang again.
The voice was hoarse yet shrill, and the Mexicans paused in wonder and amazement. They, of course, were unaware of the existence of the parrot, and the voice came to them as a distinct shock.