“Got a fair wind and sailed this morning for Belize. Must be there by now.”
“They’ll load the chicle aboard the Torentia?”
“Naturally.”
“And she sails—”
“In about twenty-four hours.”
“Doctor!” exclaimed the boy sitting straight up in bed and gripping his arm hard. “Fix me up someway. I’ve got to get over to Belize. At once! Right away, doctor. This very minute!”
“Well, young fellow,” said the doctor, rescuing his arm and putting on a wry face as he rubbed it vigorously, “you seem to have plenty of strength. I’ll see what I can do.”
A half hour later, a trifle unsteady on his feet, but otherwise quite himself, Pant was making his way to the water front of Stann Creek, the port to which he was carried after the battle. He felt the heavy bandages about his head, blinked at the sunlight, looked this way then that, until spying what appeared to be a small store just before him, he hurried in.
“I want a boat,” he said to the black proprietor.
“What kind of a boat?”