The consul laughed.
"You don't know Central America, my lad," he answered. "It's as hard for the president of the republic to get at the revolutionists as for anybody else. Meanwhile, Coleman's in danger. We can't wait for a whole lot of useless red-tape proceedings. We've got to strike, and to strike hard and quick. But we've got to do it secretly, quietly—getting Coleman away before the revolutionists know what we're doing. Understand?"
Matt nodded.
"We'll not do any fighting if it's possible to avoid it," proceeded the consul, "for that would merely complicate matters. Besides, what could a handful of strangers do against a horde of rascally niggers? Softly is the word. We've got to jump into 'em, and then out again quicker than scat—and when we come out we've got to have Coleman."
"Are you going with us, Mr. Jordan?" asked Matt.
The consul started and gave Matt a bored look.
"Going with you?" he drawled. "Why not? It isn't often we have anything exciting, here in Honduras, and I wouldn't miss the chance for a farm. Coleman lives where he never knows what minute is going to be his next, and he's continually guessing as to where the lightning is going to strike, and when. About all I do is lie around in a hammock, fight mosquitoes, take a feed now and then at Government House, and drop in at an English club here every evening for a rubber at whist. It's deadly monotonous, my lad, to a fellow who comes from the land of snap and ginger."
"I'll be glad to have you along," said Matt. "When had we better start?"
"This afternoon." The consul picked his solar hat off the railing of the veranda and got up. "I'm going over to the boarding house," he added, "to make arrangements for Captain Nemo, Jr. It's just around the corner and I'll only be gone a few minutes. Make yourself comfortable until I return."
"I'll get along all right," answered Matt.