“No, I—”
“Come here. Have a look!”
They stood before a large wall map. “Look at it,” Kennedy insisted. “Plentiful islands with Central America on the west. A score of wonderful harbors. Suppose those people took possession of these islands. Look at Haiti! A harbor where an entire navy might drop anchor! Yes—and room left for ten thousand seaplanes! Bombers! How would our Atlantic coast—Miami, Charleston, New York, Boston—how would they look, after those planes had been raiding from this base for a week, if there were war. And who says there won’t be!
“You saw a light on the water!” He whirled around.
“Yes! Low down! A green arrow of lights, that flashed.”
“‘Low down’!—I should say they were!” The old man grimaced. “Spies!” he muttered. “Since our Marines left the islands—we took control during the World War, you know—these islands have been nests of spies! Something should be done about it. But these natives sleep on—and Uncle Sam doesn’t care to interfere. And yet I’m beginning to hope he will—before it is too late!” His words trailed off as he resumed his seat.
“These people may call themselves beach-combers,” Johnny thought to himself. “Perhaps they are, in a way! But they’re grand folks.”
The house, which he presumed had been built with native labor, was made of massive, hardwood logs. There was no glass in the broad windows, but bamboo “screens,” which could be let down at night. Mosquito-net canopies were hung over the beds to keep out insects. Most tropical houses are like that.
Behind the house were orchards—grapefruit, oranges, bananas. And down in the flat land by the shore, sugar cane was growing.
“We cut it out of the wilderness, the natives and I,” the old man rumbled, in response to Johnny’s polite inquiry. “They’re quite wonderful, these natives—once you come to understand them.