“What’ll we do with that?” said Johnny, pointing to the burro.
“Take him along in the power boat. I tell you what, Johnny, I always feel lucky when I’m saving some poor dumb creature from suffering. I shouldn’t wonder if Rip would do us a mighty good turn sometime.”
In this Pant was more nearly right than he knew. Also, this sad-looking quadruped was destined to be the cause of bringing him into great peril. But that was all in the future.
Pant had been down the river in a dory for bananas, cocoanuts and casabas. As soon as they had unloaded these stores and had eaten a hasty breakfast, they turned the prow of their motor-boat downstream and went pop-popping away.
* * * * * * * *
Belize, the city to which the boys returned, is one of matchless beauty. Built on a point of land reaching out into the sea, with its red-roofed, white-walled houses, gnarled old mahogany trees by its governor’s palace and stately royal palms at the back of the Bishop’s house, bathed in the tropical sun, it is a city to dream of.
Johnny Thompson dreamed of it very little. His mind was occupied with but one thought—getting back to the red lure.
He was making his way up from the dock to the hotel when someone called his name. Turning, he saw Hardgrave. Hardgrave was an old man. He hailed from the States and had been twenty-five years in the tropics. A natural student, he had learned much in that time and had already been of service to this boy from the land of his birth.
“Back so soon!” he asked in surprise.
“We did get back rather soon,” said Johnny. “At least our crew did. But we’re going back.” He said this last in such a tone as Sheridan must have used when he said: “Turn, boys, turn; we’re going back.” He had been given a task to do, and like any red-blooded American boy, he meant to go through with it.