Indian poisons are subtle, but they work swiftly.
“Especially a toadstool called ‘Fruit of the earth’!”
CHAPTER XIII
TOOSA’S VENGEANCE
Cliff and Nicky faced Henry Morgan on the cruiser’s deck. “Well, you are a fine one,” Cliff sneered. “You wouldn’t dare say what you do if my father and Andy hadn’t gone to the Indian village to find out if the fever quarantine is lifted up the river.”
“Yes, I would,” Henry said huskily. “I’d say it just the same. ’Cause why? ’Cause it’s true. I mean it!”
“You actually mean you’re going to ship on that sloop, lying off the reef?” Nicky argued.
“And leave us?”
“Ship on that schooner and leave you—yes! ’Cause why? What have you done about finding Mort Beecher, or—or the Golden Sun? Not one thing! You all sit around——”
“We had to scrape the hull and straighten the propeller and fix the shaft while you were gone—” Cliff grew angry.
“Yes—but when I got there, all was fixed and the cruiser was back in commission. But she’s laid still in the tide-race, here, for three days, and no move to go to Porto Bello, the way the old Indian said I should. I told you what word was sent from your friends—but you just sit and fight sand-flies and mosquitos and sweat and chafe and eat bananas and fire cocoanuts at sharks’ fins. I’m tired of waitin’. So, when that cutter comes off from final trading with the Indians, it’s Henry Morgan for on board and off for Colon or wherever the sloop touches.”