“Chicle, as you may know,” the old man had smiled, as he told Pant of it, “is the basis of all good chewing gum. Were it not for the great American game of chewing it wouldn’t be worth a red cent. As it is, with one company importing two million dollars worth a year and other smaller companies competing and yelling for more, there’s a fortune in it. There is a net profit of twenty-five cents a pound on chicle. With proper working, our tract should yield between twenty-five and fifty thousand pounds a year.”
With the writings of agreement had come a map showing the exact boundaries of the Government tract they had leased. To the right and above this tract was shown on the map the holdings of a powerful American organization. To the left were tracts leased by an unprincipled Spaniard named Diaz.
Two days after news of the fortunate concession had gone about the little city, Diaz had appeared in the Colonel’s small office. He offered a ridiculously low price for the concession. His offer was rejected. He was told that the owner meant to work the concession. He shrugged his shoulders and said:
“No get the men.”
The old man had straightened to his full height as he informed the Spaniard that he had men who could be depended upon to go anywhere, to do anything. They had worked with him and knew the honor that lay behind the Longstreet name.
Diaz had begged, entreated, stormed, threatened, then in a rage had left the office.
Two days had passed. On the third day Pant had come to the office only to find the safe looted, the map gone.
“What can we do?” he asked. “We know Diaz has it, but we can’t prove it.”
“We cannot,” the old Colonel had agreed. “Nor is there a chance of getting another before it is too late. The bleeding season for chicle begins with the first rainfall. To begin without a map is to court disaster. With a big and jealous American company on one side of us and a crooked Spaniard on the other, we are between the rocks and the tide. We are sure to encroach upon one or the other. And if we do, it will take all we have to fight their claims. It looks like defeat.” He had cupped his hands and had stared gloomily at the sea.
“Wait,” Pant had said. “Johnny Thompson will help us out. Give us a little time. We’ll find the map. Leave it to us.”