"No Spanish inn for me," said the Lieutenant with conviction. "Verminous holes, that's what they are. No, we'll camp out, and imagine it's the good old Scout days."
"Might do worse," agreed Tom with his cheery smile. "So the sooner we pitch upon a suitable spot the better. It will be dark in another ten minutes."
The site selected was a sandy hollow fringed with long coarse grass, and open to the east. In that direction lay the Mediterranean, its shores being separated from the officers' bivouac by a distance of about twenty yards. To the south the summit of the towering heights of the Rock could just be discerned, above the ridge of sand that enclosed the hollow on three sides.
Thoroughly tired with their exertions, the chums were soon fast asleep. Then Webb awoke with a start and a stifled exclamation on his lips. It seemed as if he had slept but a few minutes. In reality six hours had elapsed.
He could hear voices conferring in undertones—voices unfamiliar, and speaking in a foreign language.
For some moments Webb lay still. He remembered where he was, and that it was not at all strange for men to be conversing in an unknown tongue. What he remarked was the fact that they should choose an isolated spot in the small hours of the morning to engage upon what was evidently a secret confabulation.
Cautiously the Sub raised himself on his elbows and peered through the long grass. In the bright starlight he made a strange discovery. There were three men: two in the uniform that bore a strong resemblance to that of the British Navy; the third was none other than the chums' would-be philosopher and guide, Señor Alfonzo y Guzman Perez.