They touched her side at a hanging ladder.
“Up you go!” said the man, under his breath. Then, to someone at the rail, “Here’s three young recroots, Don Ortiga!”
“Don—” Nicky gulped. “What’s the matter?” whispered Tom.
“Ortiga—” Nicky returned, “that’s the name of the man who owned that other speed boat, back in Jamaica! Now—I wonder——”
CHAPTER XIII
THE MYSTERY BOYS DECIDE
“What do you wonder?” asked Tom, when the chums were herded into the small forecastle in the bow, vacant at the moment.
“The man who owned that boat, back in Jamaica—the El Libertad—was named Senor Ortiga,” Nicky answered. “I wonder if this one is the same fellow.”
“But this isn’t the Libertad,” Tom objected. “It’s a bigger boat and it isn’t white.”
“And that fellow called this man ‘Don’ and not ‘Senor,’” Cliff added. “They may be relatives. Mr. Neale saw the man in Jamaica—he would know. I wonder where he is!”
As he expressed this wondering about their chief, the latter was holding a conference with a Government Revenue Officer in the tiny cabin of a very swift little revenue cutter which was cruising among the reefs and keys, in search of the very hi-jackers and rum-runners among whom the chums were quartered.