The moment the Constitutionalists’ footsteps had ceased to sound he was whispering a plan to Bob. The Rambler chief nodded.
“Bully for you, Tom,” he replied in equally low tones. “We’ll do it!”
“Dick,” exclaimed Tom, suddenly, “do you think the other chaps are all right?”
“Yes!” responded Dick. “I’ll tell you now——”
“It’s a jolly fine thing to feel that way,” interjected Bob, earnestly. He lowered his voice. “But we don’t want to do any more talking just now!”
Wonderingly, Jimmy Raymond followed them as they cautiously started for the doorway. A little reconnoitering showed that the interior was deserted.
The broad, sunny plaza presented an entirely different scene from any which had before greeted their eyes. It wore all the appearance of an armed camp. Stacked rifles were gleaming in the light. Cavalry horses hitched singly and in groups occupied almost every available place. Booted and spurred revolutionists, with cartridge belts worn about their waists or slung across their shoulders, filled the square. It was an ever-moving throng, which sent up a ceaseless jabbering of talk, of shouts and yells, while the pigeons fluttered about the belfry of the ancient church and dared not to venture down in their familiar haunts below.
“Poor chaps!” exclaimed Dick, in low tones. His eyes were following a squad of Federal soldiers—prisoners, being escorted by armed guards across the square. “This is no place for us!” he added.
“Let’s steer straight for the American Consul,” suggested Jimmy. “I know the house—that’s one of the jobs he gets paid for—protecting United States subjects.”
“On to the stable!” said Cranny, softly.