The general was too busy during the night to pay heed to his prisoner. He sorely needed the seasoned soldier of fortune to handle the lawless crew. The encounter with the launch had made him fear pursuit, and his martial spirit was considerably harassed. He blamed Walter Goodwin as the source of his woes, and yearned to knock the meddlesome young passenger on the head and toss him overboard. This was not feasible, however, because although the ship's company was ripe for revolution, rebellion, or piracy on the high seas, they would draw the line at cold-blooded murder. It seemed an easier solution of the problem to take Goodwin ashore with the expedition and conveniently lose him in the jungle of San Salvador.
"He looks at me like the cat that swallowed the canary," sighed Walter next morning. "Oh, if my right arm was only well and sound, I might fight my way out of this fix somehow. But I just can't believe that things won't come my way."
There were several English-speaking adventurers on board, recruited from the ranks of the "tropical tramps" of Colon and Panama, and General Quesada was unwilling to have Walter make their acquaintance. His story might enlist their sympathy. He was therefore removed from the deck-house and put in a small state-room below. A sentry was posted outside the door, and a boy from the galley brought the rough rations served out to the crew.
It was a tedious imprisonment, with nothing to do but lie in the bunk, or walk to and fro three steps each way, or gaze through the round port-hole at the shining, monotonous expanse of ocean. Now and then the deck above his head resounded to the measured tramp of many feet and the cadenced rattle of breech-blocks and bayonets. Rifles had been broken out of the cargo, and the landing party was being drilled.
The boldly romantic character of the voyage made Walter's blood tingle. To be afloat with these modern buccaneers who were bound out to raid the Spanish Main was like a dream come true. But he had no part in it. He was something to be got rid of. Youth is not easily dismayed, however, and the whole experience was too fantastic, too incredible, for Walter to regard his plight as gravely as the facts warranted.
On the second day at sea, he was staring through the open port, sadly thinking about the fond household in Wolverton. There was a sudden shouting on deck. The engines of the Juan Lopez clanked and groaned as if they were being driven beyond the limit of safety, and every beam and plate and rivet of the rusty hull protested loudly. Some one ran through the cabin shouting:
"They are after us, all right. This blighted old hooker can't get away."
Walter cheered and jubilantly pounded the door with his undamaged fist. A faster steamer was chasing the Juan Lopez. It must have been sent out from the Canal Zone. Poking his head through the port, he squirmed as far as his shoulders would let him. Far astern he caught a glimpse of a black, sea-going tug of large tonnage, whose tall prow was flinging aside the foam in snowy clouds.
Soon the Juan Lopez sharply altered her course and began to edge in toward the coast. From this new angle Walter was able to watch the tug draw nearer and nearer until he could make out the khaki uniforms of the marines massed forward.
"Here is where General Quesada gets what is coming to him," he cried exultantly.