Phil had half started to speak as he saw Lazar’s face light up with triumph.
“After all,” he thought, “he dare not deliver up the guns. It would be worth his commission at the very least. They are surely safe in his hands.”
“Now, Mr. Perry,” said the captain in kindly tones, turning from the officer of the deck to the waiting midshipmen, “you and Mr. Monroe go below and turn in. You have worked hard enough for one day. Mr. Lazar can attend to everything. Your service, gentlemen, has been highly gratifying and a credit to the best traditions of American midshipmen.”
The lads went reluctantly below to their room, much chagrined at the course affairs had taken. Their enemy and a paid emissary of the vice-consul in charge of the arms they had worked so hard to capture. It was deeply disappointing, but they felt powerless.
“I couldn’t have interfered,” Phil argued to himself as he lay in his bunk, “unless I told the captain all, and what proof could I have brought? Both Lazar and the vice-consul would deny it.”
Despite their excited experiences, our boys were soon wrapt in profound slumber.
They were awake early the next morning and went about their routine duties on board ship as if nothing had happened.
The wounded engineer was placed in the sick bay and the doctors announced he would be ready for duty in a few days.
A rumor that something extraordinary had happened passed about the ship, but the captain cautioned the strictest secrecy, and gave out that he had landed the guard to be ready in case the expected assault on the city should prove successful.
Phil, as he stood on the quarter-deck after breakfast, could see the dozen or more khaki-colored tents on Legation Hill, where Lazar’s men were encamped.