It did not seem like it, though, for as the schooner sailed on into the beautiful orange glow of the coming evening, the gunboat neared them swiftly, spreading a golden trail of light far behind her over the sea which her screw churned up into foam, while overhead trailed backward what seemed to be like a triumphant black feather of smoke.

The city before them looked bright and attractive with its gaily-painted houses, green and yellow jalousies, and patches of verdure in the gardens, beyond which the mountains rose in ridge after ridge of green and purple and grey. The bay in front of them was singularly devoid of life. Probably on account of the swell remaining from the hurricane there were no fishing-boats afloat save one, with a long white lateen sail running up into the air like the pointed wing of some sea-bird gliding over the surface of the sea.

No one paid any heed to the boat, which drew nearer and nearer from the fact that it was gliding across the bay right in the schooner's course. In fact, every eye was directed at the gunboat, which came steadily on without hurry, as if her commander felt that he was perfectly certain of his prize, while what went on upon her deck was plainly visible through the glass, the boys noting in turn that her heavy gun was manned and ready to bring them to whensoever the gunboat captain pleased to make her speak.

"Oh, Fitz!" groaned Poole. "It does seem so hard. I did think we were going to do it now."

"Well, I can't help being sorry for you," said the middy. "Yes, it does seem hard, though I suppose I oughtn't to speak like this. I say, though, look at those stupid niggers in that boat! Why don't they get out of the way? We shall run them down."

"Murder! Yes," cried Poole, and pulling out his knife he ran to one of the life-buoys to cut it free; but ere he could reach it there was a sharp crack as the schooner seemed to glide right over the fishing-boat, the tall white lateen sail disappeared, and Fitz ran to the side, expecting to see those who manned the slight craft struggling in the water.

To his surprise, though, he saw that a dark-complexioned man was holding on with a boat-hook, boat and trailing sail were being carried onward by the schooner, and another man was climbing over the port bulwark.

What followed passed very quietly. The man gained the deck and ran aft to where the captain and mate were hurrying to meet him.

There was a quick passing of something white, and then the man almost glided over the bulwarks again into the boat, which fell astern, and those who manned her began to hoist the long lateen sail once more.

"A message from the shore," whispered Poole excitedly, as he saw his father step into the shelter of one of the boats swinging from the davits, to screen himself from any observant glass on the gunboat's deck, and there he rapidly tore open a packet and scanned the message that it contained.

"Oh, I should like to know what it says," whispered Poole, "but I mustn't ask him. It's lucky to be old Burgess," he continued, for the captain walked slowly to his chief officer, who stood sulkily apart as if not paying the slightest heed to what was going on.

The skipper stood speaking to him for about a minute, and the lad saw the heavy-looking mate give a short nod of the head and then turn his eyes upwards towards the white spread sails as they still glided on through the orange glow.

Boom—thud! and Fitz literally jumped; the report, and its echo from the mountain-backed shore, was so sudden and unexpected.

"Blank shot," said Poole, looking at the white smoke curling up from one of the man-of-war's small guns.

"Order to heave-to," said Fitz; "and you will have to, or a ball will come skipping along next."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Poole, "across our bows; and if we didn't stop for that I suppose they would open fire with their big gun. Think they could hit us?"

"I don't know about them," said Fitz, rather pompously, "but I know our old Tonans would send you to the bottom with her first shot."

"Then I'm glad it isn't the Tonans" said Poole, laughing. "Here, we are not going to be sunk;" for in obedience to the summons the schooner was thrown up into the wind, the big sails shivering in the soft breeze, and gradually turning of a deeper orange glow. Meanwhile there was a bustle going on aboard the gunboat, and an orange cutter manned by orange men glided down into the sea. Then oars began to dip and at every stroke threw up orange and gold. So beautiful was the scene that Fitz turned from it for a moment to look westward for the source of the vivid colouring, and was startled for the moment at the curious effect, for there, balanced as it were on the highest point of the low ridge of mountains at the back of the city, was the huge orange globe that lit up the whole bay right away to sea, and even as he gazed the sun seemed to touch the mountains whose summit marked a great black notch like a cut out of its lower edge.

"Here they come," said Poole, making Fitz start round again. "What swells," he continued bitterly. "The dad ought to go below and put on his best jacket. Look at the golden braid."

"I say," cried Fitz, "he'll see my uniform. What will he say to me?"

"Take you for an English officer helping in a filibustering craft."

"Oh, but I shall explain myself," cried Fitz. "But it would be rather awkward if they didn't believe me. Here, you, Poole, I don't understand a word of Spanish; you will have to stand by me and help me out of a hole."

"And put my father in?" cried Poole. "You are a modest chap!—Why, look there, I am bothered if the dad isn't going to do it!" cried the lad excitedly.

"Do what?"

"Put on his best jacket. Look, he's going to the cabin-hatch. No, he isn't. What's he saying to old Butters?"

The lad had no verbal answer, but he saw for himself. The gunboat's cutter was still a couple of hundred yards away, and coming steadily on, when, as if by accident or from the action of the swell, the spokes of the wheel moved a little, with the consequence that the wind began to fill the schooner's sails, the man at the wheel turned it a little, and the canvas shivered once more.

But the schooner had begun to move, gliding imperceptibly along, and as this manoeuvre was repeated, she moved slowly through the water, keeping the row-boat almost at the same distance astern. A full minute had elapsed before the officer noticed this, and he rose in the stern-sheets and shouted an order in Spanish, to which the mate replied by seeming to repeat it to the man at the wheel, who hurriedly gave the spokes a turn, the sails filled, and the Teal glided steadily on.

"Yah!" roared Butters furiously. "Out of the way, you great clumsy lubber!" And he made a rush at the man, who loosed his hold of the spokes and backed away as if to shelter himself from blows, while, swinging free, the rudder yielded to the pressure of the swell and the schooner glided along faster still.

There was a threatening shout from the boat and a hostile movement of weapons, to which Butters responded by roaring out in broad, plain English—

"Ay, ay, sir! All right! Clumsy lubber! Break his head."

As he spoke he moved slowly to the wheel, seized the spokes, rammed them down as if confused, and then hurriedly turned them the other way, with the result that the schooner still kept gliding slowly on, with the cutter at the same distance astern.

"That'll do," said the skipper; "drop it now," and trembling with excitement as he grasped the manoeuvres being played Fitz made a grab at Poole's arm, while Poole made a grab at his, and they stood as one, waiting for the result.

In obedience to his orders, the boatswain now turned and held the schooner well up in the wind, her forward motion gradually ceasing, and the gunboat's cutter now gaining upon them fast.

"Why, the sun's gone down," whispered Fitz excitedly.

"Yes," said Poole, "and the stars are beginning to show."

"In another five minutes," said Fitz, "it will be getting dusk."

"And in another ten," whispered Poole hoarsely, "it will be dark. Oh, dad, now I can see through your game."

"So can I," whispered Fitz, though the words were not addressed to him. "Why, Poole, he means to fight!"

"Does he? For a penny he doesn't mean to let them come on board. Why, look at Butters; he's lying down on the deck."

"Yes," whispered Fitz; "to be in shelter if they fire while he's working the spokes. Look, the sails are filling once again."

"It's too soon," whispered Poole hoarsely. "They'll see from the gunboat and fire, and if they do—"

"They will miss us, my boy," said the skipper, who had approached unseen. "Lie down, my lads—every one on deck."

"And you too, father," whispered Poole. "They may hit you with a bullet."

"Obey orders," said the skipper sternly. "The captain must take his chance."

Crack, crack, crack, and whizz, whizz, whizz!

The officer of the cutter saw through the manoeuvre at last, and fired at the retreating schooner's skipper, while a minute later, as the Silver Teal was gliding rapidly into a bank of gloom that seemed to come like so much solid blackness down the vale, there was a bright flash as of lightning, a deep boom as of thunder, which shook the very air, and a roar of echoes dying right away, while the great stars overhead now stood out rapidly one by one in the purple velvet arch overhead.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

BY THE SKIN OF THEIR TEETH.

"When we have escaped," cried Fitz excitedly, a few minutes later, a very brief time having sufficed to shut out the cutter and gunboat too.

"Escaped!" said Poole, with a little laugh, as he clapped his companion on the shoulder. "Well, we have."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Fitz; "I meant you. But what will be done now? We are—you are regularly shut in this bay. The gunboat will keep guard, and her boats will begin patrolling up and down so that you can't get away. It only means waiting till morning."

"Waiting till morning, eh?"

"Of course. And then they'll sink you as sure as you are here."

"Yes," said Poole, laughing merrily; "not a doubt about it."

"Well," said Fitz, "I don't see anything to laugh at."

"Don't you? Then I do. Why, you don't suppose for a moment that we shall be here? The fellows in that fishing-boat brought father some despatch orders for a rendezvous somewhere else, I should say. Just you wait a little, my boy, and you will see what the Teal can do. She can't dive, but she can dodge."

"Dodge in a little bay like this—dodge a gunboat?"

"Of course. Just wait till it's a little darker. I dare say father has got his plans all ready made, just the same as he had when it seemed all over just now. If he and old Burgess were too much for the Spanish dons in broad daylight, you may depend upon it that they will give them the go-by in the dark. Quiet! Here he is."

"Yes, here I am, my boy," said the skipper quietly. "Look here, you two. Hear—see—as much as you can:—and say nothing. Everything on board now must be quiet, and not a light seen."

"All right, father," replied Poole, "but I can't see anything of the gunboat's lights."

"No, and I don't suppose you will. They will take care not to show any. Well, Mr Burnett, may I trust you not to betray us by shouting a warning when the enemy are near? We are going to play a game of hide-and-seek, you know. We shall do the hiding, and the Spaniards will have to seek. Of course you know," he continued, "it would be very easy for you to shout when we were stealing along through the darkness, and bring the enemy's boats upon us just when they are not wanted."

"Well, yes, sir, I was thinking so a little while ago," replied the middy.

"Well, that's frank," said the skipper; "and is that what I am to expect from your sense of duty?"

Fitz was silent.

"Well, sir," he said at last, "I don't quite know. It's rather awkward for me, seeing how I am placed."

"Yes—very; but I don't believe you would think so if you knew what sort of a character this usurping mongrel Spaniard is. There is more of the treacherous Indian in his blood than of the noble Don. Perhaps under the circumstances I had better make you a prisoner in your cabin with the dead-light in, so that you can't make a signal to the enemy with lamp or match."

"It would be safer, sir," said Fitz.

"But most unpleasant," continued the skipper. "But there, my lad, situated as you are, I don't think you need strain a point. Give me your parole that you will content yourself with looking on, and I won't ask you to go below."

"Oh, he will, father. I'll answer for that," cried Poole.

"Answer for yourself, my boy. That's enough for you to do. Let Mr Burnett give me his own assurance. It would be rather mean, wouldn't it, Mr Burnett, if you did betray us?"

"Yes, sir; horrible," cried Fitz quickly. "But if it were one of our ships I should be obliged."

"Of course," said the skipper; "but as it is you will hold your tongue?"

"Yes, sir; I shall look on."

"That's right. Now then," continued the skipper, "the game's going to begin. There is sure to be some firing, so keep well down under the shelter of the bulwarks. Of course they will never have a chance to take aim, but there is no knowing what a random shot may do."

"Want me to do anything, father?" said Poole eagerly.

"No, my boy. There is nothing you can do. It will all lie with Mr Burgess; Butters, who will be at the wheel; myself, and the men who trim the sails."

"You are going to sail right away then; eh, father?"

"That all depends, my boy—just as the chances come."

"But as the schooner draws so little water, sir," said Fitz eagerly, "won't you sail close in under the shore?"

"No, my lad. That's just what the enemy will expect, and have every boat out on the qui vive. I don't mind telling you now what my plans will be."

He was silent for a few minutes, and they dimly made out that he was holding up his left hand as a warning to them not to speak, while he placed his right behind his ear and seemed to be listening, as if he heard some sound.

"Boat," he said, at last, in a whisper, "rowing yonder right across our stern. But they didn't make us out. Oh, I was about to tell you what I meant to do. Run right by the gunboat as closely as I can without touching her, for it strikes me that will be the last thing that they will expect."

He moved away the next moment, leaving the boys together once again, to talk in whispers about the exciting episode that was to come.

"I say, Fitz," whispered Poole excitedly, "isn't this better than being on board your sleepy old Tonans?"

"You leave the sleepy old Tonans alone," replied the middy. "She's more lively than you think."

"Could be, perhaps; but you never had a set-out like this."

"No," said Fitz stiffly, "because the Tonans never runs away."

"That's one for me," said Poole, laughing. "There are times when you must run, my lad, and this is one. Hullo, they're shaking out more canvas. It's going to be yachting now like a race for a cup. It's 'bout ship too."

"Yes, by the way one can feel the wind," replied Fitz; "but I don't believe your people can see which way to steer."

"Nor I neither," said Poole coolly. "Father is going to chance it, I believe. He'll make straight for where he saw the gunboat last, as he thinks, and take it for granted that we can't run on to her. Besides, she is pretty well sure to be on the move."

"Most likely," said Fitz; "but it's terribly risky work."

The rippling of the water under the schooner's bows came very plainly now, as the boys went right forward, where two men were on the look-out. These they joined, to find that they had the sternest instructions, and these were communicated by the men to the two lads.

"Mustn't speak, gentlemen," they said.

"Just one word," whispered Fitz. "What are you going to do if you make out that you are running right on to the enemy?"

"Whistle," said the man addressed, laconically.

"What, for more wind?" asked Fitz.

"No, sir," said the man, with a low chuckle; "for the man at the wheel. One pipe means starboard; two pipes, port. See?"

"No," said Poole, "but he can hear."

As they were whispering, the louder rippling beneath the schooner's cut-water plainly told of the rate at which they were gliding through the dark sea. The stars were clear enough overhead, but all in front seemed to be of a deep transparent black, whose hue tinged even the staysail, jib, and flying-jib, bellying out above their heads and in front. As far as the lads could make out they had been running in towards the city, taken a good sweep round, and then been headed out for the open sea, with the schooner careening over and rushing through the water like a racing yacht.

There are some things in life which seem to be extended over a considerable space of time, apparently hours, but which afterwards during calmer thought prove to have taken up only minutes, and this was one.

Poole had just pointed out in a low whisper that by the stars they were sailing due east, and the man nearest to them, a particularly sharp-eared individual, endorsed his words by whispering laconically—

"Straight for the open sea."

The water was gliding beneath them, divided by the sharp keel, with a hissing rush; otherwise all was still; for all they could make out the gunboat and her satellites, sent out to patrol, might have been miles away. There was darkness before them and on either hand, while in front apparently lay the open ocean, and the exhilaration caused by their rapid motion produced a buoyant feeling suggesting to the lads that the danger was passed and that they were free.

Then in another moment it seemed to Fitz Burnett as if some giant hand had caught him by the throat and stopped his breath.

The sensation was appalling, and consequent upon the suddenly-impressed knowledge that, in spite of the fact that there was about a mile and a half of space of which an infinitesimally small portion was occupied by danger, they were gliding through the black darkness dead on to that little space, for suddenly in front there arose the dull panting, throbbing sound of machinery, the churning up of water to their left, and the hissing ripple caused by a cut-water to their right.

It was horrible.

They were going dead on to the gunboat, which was steaming slowly across their bows, and it seemed to the breathless, expectant group that the next moment they would be cutting into her side, or more likely crumpling up and shivering to pieces upon her protecting armour. But there is something in having a crew of old man-of-war's men, disciplined and trained to obey orders in emergencies, and thinking of nothing else. The skipper had given his commands to his two look-out men, and in the imminence of the danger they were obeyed, for as Fitz Burnett gripped his companion's arm, involuntarily drawing him sideways in the direction of the bulwark, to make a leap for life, a sharp clear pipe, like the cry of some sea-bird, rang out twice, while the panting and quivering of the machinery and the churning rush of the gunboat's crew seemed right upon them.

Suddenly there was a loud shout, followed by a yell, the report of a revolver, succeeded by the deep booming roar of a fog-syren which had been set going by the funnel, and then as Fitz Burnett felt that the crash was upon them, the roar of the fog-horn was behind, for the Teal had as nearly as possible scraped past the gunboat's stern, and was flying onward towards the open sea.

For a few moments no one spoke, and then it was one of the look-out men.

"About as near as a toucher, that, messmate."

"Ay, and I seemed to have no wind when I wanted to blow. Once is quite enough for a job like that."

"Is it true, Poole?" whispered Fitz, and his voice sounded hoarse and strange.

"I don't quite know yet," was the reply as the lad walked aft. "It seemed so impossible and queer—but it is, and, my word, how close!"



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

IN THE DARK.

"Silence there!" came in a stern, deep voice. "Sound travels in a night like this."

It was the speaker's ultra caution spoken in a moment of intense excitement in which he hardly realised how far they had left the gunboat behind. But his orders were obeyed, utter stillness ruling on board the schooner till they had visual proof that there was no necessity for such care.

"What's that? Look!" whispered Fitz, as there was a faint lambent glare far astern, one which gradually increased, and Poole whispered back—

"They are burning a blue light."

"Yes," said the skipper, who was still close at hand. "Know what that means, my boy?"

"Well, I suppose it's to try if they can see us, father."

"Not it," said the skipper sharply. "You know, Mr Burnett?"

"I should say it's a signal, sir, to recall their boats."

"Right, my lad; that's it; and that will take some little time, for I dare say they are spread all over the bay. She's not likely to have a consort; eh, Burgess?"

"I should think not," was the reply. "No, I don't think we need trouble ourselves about that."

"Right, then. Get well out into the offing, and then sail for south-east by south."

The mate grunted, gave an order or two, with the result that a gaff-topsail was run up, and the schooner heeled over more and more, while now the dim light that had been thrown down on the binnacle was increased a little, and the skipper took his place beside the steersman.

"That means that he is not afraid of our being seen," said Poole quietly. "I say, what an escape we had! Don't you call this exciting?"

"Yes," said Fitz; "rather more so than I like. Let's go right forward again to where the look-out men are."

"To help them keep a sharp look-out for rocks? There are none out here, or we shouldn't be going at this rate."

"Think that they will come after us?"

"Sure to," said Poole. "Full steam ahead."

"Then they'll see us again at daylight."

"Think so? Why, we have got all the night before us, and the gunboat's captain isn't likely to follow in our wake."

"I suppose not. It would be a great chance if he did. How beautiful the water is to-night!"

"Yes! One had no chance to admire it before. 'Tis fine. Just as if two rockets were going off from our bows, so that we seem to be leaving a trail of sparks behind."

"Yes, where the water's disturbed," said Fitz. "It's just as if the sea was covered with golden oil ready to flash out into light as soon as it was touched."

"Why, you seem quite cheery," said Poole.

"Of course. Isn't it natural after such a narrow escape?"

"Yes, for me," replied Poole banteringly; "but I should have thought that you would have been in horribly low spirits because you were not captured and taken on board the gunboat."

"No, you wouldn't," said Fitz shortly. "I know better than that. I say, you will stop on deck all night, won't you?"

"Of course. Shan't you?"

"Oh yes. I couldn't go to sleep after this. Besides, who can tell what's to come?"

"To be sure," said Poole quietly. "Who can tell what's to come? In spite of what old Burgess says, the gunboat may have a consort, and perhaps we are running out of one danger straight into another."

Perhaps due to the reaction after the excitement, the lads ceased to chat together, and leaned over the bows, alternately watching the phosphorescent sea and the horizon above which the stars appeared dim and few.

Fitz looked more thoughtful as the time went on, his own words seeming to repeat themselves in the question—Who knows what might happen?

Once they turned aft, to look right astern at where they caught sight once or twice of the gunboat's light. Then it faded out and they went forward again, the schooner gliding swiftly on, till at last the mate's harsh, deep voice was heard giving his orders for an alteration of their course.

It was very dark inboard, and it was not until afterwards that the two lads knew exactly what had taken place. It was all in a moment, and how it happened even the sufferer hardly knew, but it was all due to a man having stepped in the darkness where he had no business to be; for just after the giving of the order, and while the spokes were swinging through the steersman's hands, one of the booms swung round, there was a dull thud, a half-uttered shout, and then a yell from one of the foremost men.

"Man overboard!" was roared, and as the skipper ran forward, after shouting to the steersman to throw the schooner up into the wind, another man answered his eager question with—

"It's Bob Jackson, sir. I saw him go."

The captain's excited voice rang out mingled with the shrill whistle of the boatswain's pipe, and then to be half-drowned by his hoarse roar as the men's feet pattered over the deck, now rapidly growing level as the pressure was taken off the sails.

"Now then, half-a-dozen of you!" came hoarsely. "Don't stand staring there! Are you going to be all night lowering down that boat? Sharp's the word! I am going to show you the way."

As he spoke, Fitz had a dim vision of the big bluff fellow's action, as, pulling out his knife, he opened it with his teeth.

"Sharks below there!" he roared. "'Ware my knife!" and running right astern he sprang on to the rail, looked round for a moment, fixed his eyes upon a luminous splash of light that had just taken Fitz's attention, and then sprang overboard into the black water, which splashed up like a fountain of fire, and the bluff sailor's figure, looking as if clad in garments of lambent gold, could be seen gliding diagonally down, forming a curve as it gradually rose to the surface, which began to emit little plashes of luminosity as the man commenced to swim.

"Well done! Bravo!" panted Fitz, and then he rushed to the spot where the men were lowering down, sprang on to the bulwark, caught at the falls, and slipped down into the boat just as it kissed the water.

"You here!" cried a familiar voice.

"Yes," panted Fitz, "and you too!"

"Why, of course! Pull away, my lads. I'll stand up and tell you which way to go."

The falls were already unhooked and the oars over the side, the men pulling with all their might in the direction where the regular splashes made by the motion of the boatswain's arm could be seen as he scooped away at the water with a powerful side stroke.

"Pull, lads—pull!" roared the skipper's son, while in his excitement Fitz scrambled over the oars to get right in the bows, where he strained his eyes to try and make out the man who had gone over first, and a terrible catching of the breath assailed him as he realised the distance he had been left behind by the swiftly-gliding schooner.

Even the boatswain was far away, swimming hard and giving out a heavy puff like some grampus just rising to breathe.

"This way, boys!" he shouted. "Come along! Cheer up, my hearty! I am coming fast."

He ceased speaking now, as the boat followed in his track, and Fitz as he knelt in the bows reached behind him to begin fumbling for the boat-hook, finding it and thrusting it out like a little bowsprit, ready to make a snatch when the time should come. But his effort seemed as if it would be vain, for after what seemed in the excitement to be a terribly long row, the boat was brought abreast of the swimming boatswain.

"Can't you see him, Butters?" shouted Poole, who had now joined Fitz.

"No, my lad," came in a hoarse gasping tone. "Can't you?"

"No. I saw the water splash not a minute ago. It was just beyond where you were swimming."

"No; more to the left," cried Fitz. "Ah, there! There! There!" and he pointed out in the direction he had described.

"Yes, that's it," roared the boatswain, who seemed suddenly to have recovered his breath, and throwing himself away from the boat, whose side he had grasped, he splashed through the water for a few yards towards where a ring of gold seemed to have been formed, and as the boat followed, and nearly touched his back, he seemed to be wallowing in an agitated pool of pale greenish fire, which went down and down for quite a couple of fathoms, the boat passing right above it with the men backing water at a shout from Poole, so that they passed the disappearing swimmer again.

"Now," shouted Fitz, as the golden light began to rise, and thrusting down the boat-hook he felt it catch against the swimmer's side.

The next moment the boatswain was up with a rush, to throw one arm over the bows.

"Got him!" he gasped.

There was a quick scramble, the water almost lapped over the side as the starboard-bow went down, and then, partly with the hauling of the boys, partly by the big sturdy boatswain's own efforts, the unfortunate Bob Jackson was dragged aboard, the boatswain rolling in after him with his messmates' help, and subsiding between two of the thwarts with a hoarse, half-strangled groan.

"Hooroar!" came from the men, the boys' voices dominating the shout with a better pronunciation of the word.

"Hooroar it is!" gasped the boatswain. "Bravo, Butters! Well done! Well done!" cried Poole.

"Well done? I am done, you mean. I thought I'd let him go. Keep back, some on you—give a fellow room to breathe. That's better," came with more freedom. "Now then, give your orders, Mr Poole," panted the man; "I've lost my wind. Get him on his back and pump his into him. That's your sort!" he continued, as in obedience to the young skipper's commands two men began to row while the others set to work upon the first aid necessary in the case of a half-drowned man.

"Ah!" sighed the boatswain, now sitting up in the bottom of the boat and shuffling himself aft a little so as to give more room. "I am as weak as a babby. Well done! Pump away, my lads. That's your sort! Pore chap, he's all water and no wind now! I dunno what he'd been about. Had he been soaping his feet?—Think he's coming round, Mr Poole?"

"I hope so," was the reply. "I am afraid, poor fellow, he must have been half-stunned. Come and look, Butters; I want you to feel his chest." The boatswain came and leaned over. "Keep it up, my lads. It will be all right soon. Oh yes, his own pump's going on inside. His kit won't be for sale. But I don't believe he'd have taken his trick at the wheel again if I hadn't gone down and fetched him up."

"No; you saved his life, Mr Butters," cried Fitz excitedly. "I never saw anything so brave before. Would you mind—"

"Eh!—What, sir?—Shake hands?—Certainly, sir, hearty, and same to you!"

"Oh!" ejaculated Fitz involuntarily. "I am very sorry, sir. Did I squeege too hard?"

"Why, it was a scrunch," said the boy petulantly. "But it's all right now. Your fingers, though, are as hard as wood."

"Well, they arn't soft, sir. But hallo! I never shut up my knife." He closed the keen blade with a sharp snap. "There! Now you see the vally of a lanyard," he continued, as he thrust the great clasp-knife into the waist-band of his trousers.—"Keep it up, my lads. I'll take a turn as soon as I've got my own wind again. Ah, there's nothing like a lanyard. If it hadn't been for that my snickersee would have gone zigger-zagging down through the dark black water disturbing the little jellyfish and lighting the way for a snip, snap, swallow, all's fish that comes to their net style, to go inside some shark. But I've got it safe. It's a fine bit of Sheffield stuff, and I'll be bound to say it would have disagreed with him as had swallowed it. Here, somebody—who's got a match? Mine'll be all wet. Strike a light, will you; I want to see if he's beginning to wink yet."

A match was struck, and as it burned steadily in the still air a faint light was shown from the schooner far, far away.

"See there, my lads? He's winking his eyes like fun; but go on pumping slow and steady to keep him breathing—mustn't let him slip through your fingers now. Pull away there, my lads; put your backs into it. My word, there's a stiff current running here!"

"Yes," said Poole; "we are much farther away than I thought."

"But what an escape!" cried Fitz.

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"Look yonder; that streak of light gliding along and making the water flash. You can just make out now and then something dark cutting through it."

"Ah, that's plain enough," said the boatswain; "a jack shark's back fin, and a big un too."

"Lucky for you both," said Poole, "that you are safe on board."

"Lucky for him, you mean," said the boatswain. "That knife of mine's as sharp as hands can make it. If I had let him have it he'd have shown white at daylight, floating wrong side up."

"If you had hit him," said Fitz.

"If I'd hit him, sir! A man couldn't miss a thing like that. But of course there wouldn't have been time to pick my spot."

"Oh!" ejaculated Fitz, in a long-drawn sigh. "Seems to turn me quite over! That's about the most horrible cry I know—Man overboard! It's bad enough in the daylight, but on a night like this—"

"Ah, it would make you feel a bit unked, my lad," said the boatswain, "if you had time to think; but it was a fine night for the job. I have been out in a boat after one of these silly chaps as didn't mind where he was going, when you couldn't make out his bearings at all. To-night the sea brimed so that you could tell where he was at every move. Splendid night for the job!"

"And it was a very brave act, Butters," said Poole warmly.

"What was, sir?"

"Why, to jump overboard on a dark night, not knowing whether you would ever reach the schooner again."

"Tchah! Nonsense, sir! You shouldn't talk stuff like that to a wet man! It was all charnsh, of course; but a sailor's life is all charnsh from the moment he steps aboard. We are charnshing now whether they'll pick us up again, for they can't see us, and we don't seem to be making no headway at all in this current. Here, you, Sam Boulter, get right in the stem and stand by there with that there box of matches. Keep on lighting one and holding it up to let it shine out. Be careful and don't burn your ringers."

A low chuckle rose from the oarsmen, followed the next moment by a deep groan and a low muttering from the reviving man.

"Hah!" said the boatswain. "He's coming round now, and no mistake."

Just then there was a sharp scratch, a pale light of the splint of wood stood out in the darkness, and mingled with a spluttering husky cough came the voice of the half-drowned foremast-man.

"Here, easy there! What are you doing? Hah! Boat! Boat! Help!"

This was consequent on the gleaming match shining out before the poor fellow's eyes.

"Steady there!" roared out the boatswain. "What are you singing out like that for? Can't you see you are safe aboard?"

"Eh? Eh? Oh, thank goodness! I thought it was the schooner's lights. That you, Mr Butters?"

"Me it is, my lad! All right now, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes; all right. But I thought it was all over with me that time."

"So it ought to have been! Why, what were you about? Did you walk overboard in your sleep?"

"I—no—I—I dunno how it was. I suppose I slipped."

"Not much suppose about it," said the boatswain, as the man sat up. "Here, I'll give you a dose that'll do you good. Take one of them oars and pull."

"Oh no!" cried Poole. "The poor fellow's weak."

"'Course he is, sir, and that'll warm him up and put life into him. Tit for tat. We've saved him from what the old folks at home calls a watery grave, and now it's his turn to do a bit of something to save us."

"To save us, Mr Butters?" whispered Fitz, laying his hand on the boatswain's arm. "Why, you don't think—"

"Yes, I do, sir. I'm thinking all the time, as hard as a man can. Here, you'd better not handle me; I'm as wet as wet."

"But we shall soon get alongside the schooner, shan't we?"

"Well, it don't seem like it, sir. Wish we could! I should just like a good old jorum of something warm, if it was only a basin of old Andy's broth as he makes so slimy with them little round wet barley knobs. I'm all of a shiver. Here, you number one, get up and I'll take your oar. I don't like catching cold when I'm at sea."

"But surely they'll tack round, or something, so as to pick us up."

"Here, hi! You look alive there with another of those matches. You don't half keep them going, so that they can see where we are."

"Aren't any more," said the man in the stem. "I held that one till it did burn my fingers, and it was the last."

"Humph!" grunted the boatswain. "Well, they can't see us, of course, and the sea's a bit big and wide out here; let's try if we can't make them hear."

He had scarcely spoken when there was a soft bellowing roar; but the sound took form and they made out—"Ahoy-y-y-y! Where away there?" breathed, it almost seemed, so distant and strange was the hail, through a speaking-trumpet.

"Cease pulling!" shouted the boatswain. "Now then, all together. Take your time from me. One, two, three—Ahoy-y-y-y!"

Every lusty throat on board the boat sent forth the cry at once, and a strange chill ran through Fitz's breast as he noted not only how feeble the cry sounded in the immensity of space, but how it seemed thrown back upon them from something it could not penetrate—something soft and impervious which shut them in all round.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

BOATING.

"Well, Mr Poole, sir, we seem to have got ourselves into a pretty jolly sort of mess. I feel quite damp. You are skipper, sir; what's to be done?"

"Shout again," cried Poole; "all together,"—and another lusty yell was given.

"There, 'tarn't no use, sir," said the boatswain, "if so be as I may speak."

"Speak? Of course! I am only too glad of your advice. What were you going to say?"

"Only this 'ere, sir—that it aren't no use to shout. I am wet and cold, and hollering like this is giving me a sore throat, and the rest of the lads too. There's Dick Boulter is as husky as my old uncle Tom's Cochin fowl. Here, I want to know why the skipper don't show a blue light."

"He dare not," said Poole hastily. "It would be showing the gunboat where the schooner is."

There was a sharp slap heard in the darkness, caused by the boatswain bringing his hand smartly down upon his sturdy thigh.

"Right you are, my lad. I never thought of that. I oughter, but it didn't come. 'Cause I was so wet, I suppose. Well, sir, what do you think?"

"Try, every one of you," said Poole, "whether you can make out a light. The Teal oughtn't to be very far away."

"Nay, sir, she oughtn't to be, but she is. Off shore here in these seas you get currents running you don't know where. We don't know, but I expect we are in one of them, and it's carrying us along nobody knows how fast; and like as not another current's carrying on the same game with the Teal."

"Well, we must row, and row hard," said Poole.

"But that may be making worse of it," put in Fitz, who had been listening and longing to speak.

"Well done," said the boatswain. "Spoke like a young man-o'-war officer! He's right, Mr Poole, sir. I am longing to take an oar so as to get warm and dry; but it's no use to try and make what's as bad as ever it can be, ever so much worse."

"That would puzzle you, Mr Butters," said Fitz, laughing.

"Oh, I don't know, sir," said the boatswain seriously, and perfectly unconscious of the bull he had made. "We might, you know. What's to be done, Mr Poole?"

"I can only see one thing to be done," said the skipper's son, "and that seems so horrible and wanting in spirit."

"What's that?" said Fitz sharply.

"Wait for daylight."

"Oh!" cried Fitz impatiently. "Impossible! We can't do that."

"Well, I don't know, Mr Burnett, sir," growled the boatswain, gazing round. "Seems to me as if we must. Look here, you Bob Jackson," he almost roared now, as he turned sharply on the shivering foremast-man who had just been brought back to life, "what have you got to say for yourself for getting us all into such a mess as this? I always thought you were a bit of a swab, and now I knows it."

"Don't bully the poor fellow," cried Poole hotly. "It was an accident."

"Of course it was, sir," cried the boatswain, in an ill-used tone, as he drew off his jacket and began to wring it as tightly as he could; "and accidents, as I have heared say, will happen in the best-manned vessels. One expects them, and has to put up with them when they comes; but people ought to have accidents at proper times and places, not just when we've escaped running ourselves down, and the Spanish gunboat's arter us. Now then, Bob, don't sit there hutched up like a wet monkey. Speak out like a man."

"I haven't got nothing to say, Mr Butters, sir, only as I am very sorry, and much obliged to you for saving my life."

"Much obliged! Sorry! Wuss and wuss! Yah! Look at that now! Wuss and wuss. It never rains but it pours."

"What's the matter?" cried Fitz, for the boatswain had made a sudden dash with one hand as if striving to catch something that had eluded his grasp.

"Matter, sir? Why, I squeeged my brass 'bacca-box out of my jacket-pocket. It was chock-full, and it would go down like lead. Here, I give up now. Give your orders, Mr Poole, and I'll row or do anything else, for I'm quite out of heart."

"Never mind your tobacco-box," said Fitz. "I'll give you a good new one the first time I get the chance."

"Thankye kindly, sir," replied the man, "but what's the good of that? It aren't the box I mind. It's the 'bacca. Can you give me a mossel now?"

"I am sorry to say I can't," said Fitz.

"I've got plenty of that, Mr Butters, sir," said his wet companion, dragging out a box with some difficulty, for his wet hand would hardly go into his tight breeches-pocket, and when he had forced it in, declined to come out.

"You've got plenty, Bob, my lad?" cried the boatswain. "Then you are a better man than I thought. There, I'll forgive you for going overboard. It were an accident, I suppose.—Hah! That's better," he continued, opening his knife and helping himself to a quid, which completely altered the tone of his voice. "There you are, my lad; put that there box back, and take care on it, for who knows but what that may be all our water and biscuit and other stores as will have to last us till we get picked up again? Now, Mr Poole, sir, what's it to be? I am at your sarvice if you will give the word."

"I think we had better keep pulling gently, Butters, and go by the stars westward towards the land. It will be far better, and the feeling that we are doing something will keep us all from losing heart."

"Right, my lad. Your father the skipper couldn't have spoken wiser words than them. Here, you Bob Jackson, get out of that jacket and shirt, and two of you lads hold the things over the side and one twist one way and t'other t'other, like the old women does with the sheets on washing-day. I am going to do just the same with mine. And then we two will do what bit of rowing's wanted till we gets quite dry. Say, Mr Fitz, sir, you couldn't get better advice than that, if you had been half-drowned, if you went to the best physic doctor in Liverpool."

Shortly after, steering by the stars, the boat was headed pretty well due west, and a couple of oars were kept dipping with a monotonous splash, raising up the golden water, which dripped in lambent globules from the blades. All above was one grand dome of light, but below and around it was as if a thick stratum of intense blackness floated on the surface of the sea.

So strangely dark this seemed that it impressed the boat's crew with a sense of dread that they could not master. It was a condensation of dread and despair, that knowledge of being alone in a frail craft at the mercy of the sea, without water or supplies of any kind, and off a coast which the currents might never let them reach, while at any hour a tempestuous wind might spring up and lash the sea into waves, in which it would be impossible for the boat to live.

"Don't sit silent like that, Burnett," whispered Poole. "Say something, there's a good fellow."

"Say? What can I say?" was whispered back. "Anything. Sing a song, or tell a story. I want to keep the lads in good heart. If we show the white feather they'll show it too."

"That's right enough," said Fitz gloomily; "but I don't feel as if I could do anything but think. I couldn't sing a song or tell a story to save my life."

"But you must. It is to save your life."

"I tell you I can't," cried Fitz angrily.

"Then whistle."

The middy could not even whistle, but the suggestion and the manner in which it was said did have a good effect, for it made him laugh.

"Ah! That's better," cried Poole. "I say, Butters, do you think if we had a fishing-line overboard we should catch anything?"

"Like enough, lad, if we had a good bait on. Fish is generally on the feed in the night, and there's no end of no-one-knows-whats off these 'Merican coasts. Might get hold of something big as would tow us right ashore."

"Yes, or right out to sea," said Fitz.

"Ay, my lad; but we should have to chance that."

"But there's not likely to be a line in the locker," said Poole.

"And if there was," said Fitz, "you have no bait."

"'Cept 'bacca," said the boatswain, "and they wouldn't take that. And even if they would, we couldn't afford to waste it on fish as most likely wouldn't be good to eat. You catches fishes off these coasts as is painted up like parrots—red, and green, and yaller, and blue; but they are about as bad as pison.—Getting warmer, Bob?"

"Bit," said the man addressed.

"So'm I.—Tell the lads to keep their ears open, Mr Poole, for breakers. There may be shoal water anywhere, and we don't want to run into them."

"You think it's likely, then," said Fitz, "that we may reach the shore?"

"Oh yes, sir; we might, you know; and if we did I dare say you young gents would find it an uninhabited island where you could play at Robinson Crusoe till a ship come and took us off. What do you say to that?"

"Nothing," said Fitz. "I want the daylight to come, and a sight of the Silver Teal."

"Same here, sir. My word, I'm beginning to feel like wishing we had got the Camel here, though he would be no good without the galley and his tools. Not a bad chap to have, though, Mr Poole, if we was to land in a sort of Robinson Crusoe island. There's worse messmates at a time like that than a chap as can knock up decent wittles out of nothing; make a good pot of soup out of a flannel-shirt and an old shoe, and roast meat out of them knobs and things like cork-blocks as you find growing on trees. Some of them cookie chaps too, like the Camel, are precious keen about the nose, long-headed and knowing. Old Andy is an out-and-out clever chap at picking out things as is good to eat. I had a ramble with him once up country in Trinidad. He was a regular wunner at finding out different kinds of plants. 'Look 'ere,' he says, 'if you pull this up it's got a root something like a parsnep whose grandfather had been a beet.' And then he showed me some more things creeping up the trees like them flowers at home in the gardens, wonvuluses, as they call them, only he called them yams, and he poked one out with his stick, and yam it was—a great, big, black, thick, rooty thing, like a big tater as had been stretched. Andy said as no fellow as had brains in his head ought to starve out in a foreign land; and that's useful to know, Mr Poole and Mr Burnett, sir. Come in handy if we have to do the Robinson Crusoe for a spell.—Keep it up, young gents," he whispered; "the lads like to hear us talk.—'That's all very fine, Andy,' I says," he continued, aloud, "'but what about water? Whether you are aboard your ship or whether you are in a strange land, you must have plenty of water in your casks!' 'Find a river,' he says. 'But suppose you can't,' says I. 'Open your snickersee,' says he, 'and dig a hole right down till you come to it. And if there aren't none, then use your eyes.' 'Why, you can't drink your eyes,' I says, 'and I'd rather have sea-water any day than tears.' 'Use them,' he says; 'I didn't say drink 'em. Look about. Why, in these 'ere foreign countries there's prickly plants with long spikes to them to keep the wild beasts from meddling with them, so as they shall be ready for human beings; and then all you have got to do is to rub or singe the spikes off and they're chock-full of water—juice, if you like to call it so—only it's got no taste. Then there's plahnts with a spunful of water in their jyntes where the leaves come out, and orkard plahnts like young pitchers or sorter shucks with lids to keep the birds off, and a lot of water in the bottom of them, besides fruits and pumpkin things. Oh, a fellow can rub along right enough if he likes to try. I could manage; I know that.' And I believe he could, gentlemen, and that's what makes me say as the Camel would be just the right sort of fellow to have with us now, him and old Chips, so long as old Chips had got his basket of traps; not as he would stand still if he hadn't, for he's just the fellow, if he has no tools, as would set to and make some."

And the night gradually wore on, with the men taking their turns at rowing. The boatswain and Bob Jackson both declared themselves to be as dry as a bone, and what with talking and setting despair at defiance, they went on and on through the great silence and darkness that hovered together over the mighty deep, till all at once the boatswain startled Fitz by turning quite suddenly and saying to him—

"There aren't no farmyard and a stable handy, sir, to give us what we want. Could you make shift to do it?"

"To do what?" said Fitz wonderingly. "Crow like a cock, sir. It's just the right time now."

"You don't mean to say it's morning, Butters?"

"No, sir; it's Natur' as is a-doing that. You've got your back to it. Turn round and look behind you. That's the east."

Both lads wrenched themselves round upon the thwart where they sat, to gaze back over the sea and catch the first glimpse of the faint dawn with its promises of hope and life, and the end of the terrible night through which they had passed.

And after the manner of the tropics, the broad daylight was not long in coming, followed by the first glint of the sun, which, as it sent a long line of ruddy gold over the surface of the sea, lit up one little speck of light miles upon miles to the north of where they lay.

Fitz Burnett was the first to make it out, but before he could speak the boatswain had seen it too, and broke out with—

"Three cheers, my lads. Put all you know into it, hearty. There lies the Teal. Can you see the skipper, Mr Poole, sir?"

"See my father?" cried the lad. "No! What do you mean?"

"Ah, you want practice, sir. You ought to see him with your young eyes. He's there on deck somewhere with that double-barrelled spyglass of his, on the look-out for this 'ere boat."

"Perhaps so," said Poole quietly, "and I suppose that's one of the Teal's sails; but it's only half as big as a pocket-handkerchief folded into twenty-four."

Two hours later they were on board, for it had not been long before the double-barrelled spyglass had picked them out.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

ON THE WRONG SIDE.

An anxious look-out had been kept up all through those early hours on board both schooner and boat, for during the long delay caused by the accident, it seemed highly probable that as the gunboat did not come in sight she must have passed them in the darkness, gone on, and hence might at any moment come into view.

A man was sent up to the cross-trees, and a sharp look-out was kept up as well from the deck for the missing crew who were got safely on board, and the schooner sailed away towards the south and west, and still with no danger in sight.

"You've given me a bad night, young fellows," said the skipper, as he stood looking on at the lads enjoying their morning meal, one over which the Camel seemed to have taken extra pains, showing his large front teeth with a smile of satisfaction as he brought it in relays of newly-made hot cakes, before retiring to slip fresh slices of bacon in the pan.

"Yes, father," said Poole; "but see what a night we had!"

"Ah, but yours was merely physical, my boy; mine was mental."

"I thought ours was both; eh, Burnett?" said Poole, laughing.

"Oh, yes, it was," cried the middy. "You don't know what a night we had, Captain Reed."

"Well, I suppose you did not have a very pleasant time, my lads.—Oh, here's Mr Burgess. Well, they don't seem much the worse for it, do they? Nothing in sight?"

"No, nothing. I don't think she could have followed us out. Have you any more to say to me about the course?"

"No," said the skipper. "I think we pretty well understand about the bearings as given in the letter. The Don put it all down pretty clearly, and in very decent English too."

Fitz looked up sharply, for the mention of the letter brought to mind the light fishing-boat with the bird-wing-like lateen sail and the rapidity with which the bearer of the despatch delivered it to the skipper and went overboard again.

Captain Reed noticed the boy's inquiring look, and said quietly—

"Perhaps we had better say no more about that with an enemy present."

Fitz was in the act of helping himself to some more of the hot bread, but at the skipper's words he flushed warmly, put down the cake without taking out of it a semi-circular bite, and rose from his seat.

"I don't wish to play the spy, sir," he said haughtily. "I will go on deck till you have finished your business."

"Sit down!" cried the skipper. "Sit down! What a young pepper-castor you are! Mayn't a man think what he likes in his own cabin?"

"Certainly, sir; but of course I cannot help feeling that I am an intruder."

"That's just what I feel, my boy, for coming in and disturbing you at your meal. Sit down, I say. If anybody is going to leave the room, I am that person; but I am not going to leave my cabin, so I tell you."

The skipper gave his son a peculiar look, his eyes twinkling the while.

"Think we can trust Mr Burnett here?" he said.

Fitz gave a start.

"Oh yes, father. He won't go and tell tales. He won't have a chance. What was in that letter?"

"Just a few lines, my boy, to say that everything was going very wrong at present, and begging me whatever I did to keep the schooner's cargo out of Villarayo's hands, and to join Ramon as soon as I possibly can."

"But where, father? Both the towns are in the enemy's hands."

"At his hacienda at the mouth of the Oltec River."

"Hacienda?" said Poole. "That means a sort of farm, doesn't it, father?"

"Yes, my boy, and of course that's just the sort of place to deliver a cargo of such agricultural implements as we have brought on board. What do you say, Mr Burnett?"

"Agricultural implements, sir? Why, Captain Glossop had notice that you had taken in guns and ammunition."

"Oh yes; people do gossip so," said the skipper dryly. "I didn't examine them much myself, but I know there were things with wheels."

"But there was a lot of powder, sir—kegs of it, I heard."

"Chemical manure perhaps, my lad; potash and charcoal and sulphur perhaps to kill the blight. Must be innocent stuff, or else my old friend Don Ramon would not want it at his farm."

"I don't understand," said the middy.

"Well, it doesn't matter," cried Poole, laughing. "Go on, father."

"That's what we are doing, my boy. But you go on with your breakfast, Mr Burnett, and make a good one while you have a chance. We may be getting news any minute that the gunboat is in sight; and if it is, there's no knowing when we shall get a square meal again."

"But whereabouts is this Oltec River, father?"

"Well, as near as I can tell you, my boy, it's on the coast about thirty miles by sea from Velova, though only about half the distance through one of the mountain-passes by land. We ought to have been there now, and I dare say we should have been if Mr Burgess had not run us on to a rock. But that fellow going overboard quite upset my plans. It was a great nuisance, and I seemed to be obliged to heave-to, and wait to see if you people would come back on board."

"Yes, father, I suppose so," said Poole coolly.

"Done eating, you two?"

The lads both rose, and the whole party went on deck to scan their position, the lads finding the schooner gliding along southward before a pleasant breeze, while miles away on the starboard-bow a dim line marked the coast, which seemed rugged and broken up into mountain and vale; but there was no sign of gunboat nor a sail of any kind, and Poole breathed more freely.

"One's so helpless," he said to his companion, "on a coast like this, where one time you have a nice sailing wind, and the next hour it has dropped into a calm, so that a steamer has you quite at its mercy."

"Yes," said Fitz dryly; "but I don't see that it matters when you have nothing on board but agricultural implements and chemical manures. What business is it of the gunboat?"

"Ah, what indeed?" cried Poole, laughing. "It's a piece of impudence, isn't it, to want to interfere! But I say, Burnett, what father says sounds well, doesn't it—a hacienda at the mouth of a river, and a mountain-pass? That means going ashore and seeing something, if we are in luck. I do know that the country's glorious here, from the peep or two I once had. My word! People think because you go sailing about the world you must see all kinds of wonders, when all the time you get a peep or two of some dirty port without going ashore, and all your travels are up and down the deck of your ship—and nothing else but sea."

"I wish I could get landed at some big port," said Fitz bitterly. "I wouldn't call it dirty."

"My word, what a fellow you are!" said Poole. "Grumbling again!"

"Grumbling!" cried Fitz hotly. "Isn't it enough to make any one grumble, dragged off my ship a prisoner like this?"

"No," cried Poole. "Why, some chaps would call it grand. Now you've got about well again it's all a big lark for you. Every one's trying to make you comfortable. Look at the adventures you are going through! Look at last night! Why, it was all fine, now that we have got through it as we did. You can't say you didn't like that."

"Well, no," said Fitz; "it was exciting."

"So it is now. The gunboat's safe to be after us, and here we are, going to take refuge up a river in perhaps no end of a wild country at the Don's hacienda. Who knows what adventures we are going to have next!"

"Not likely to be many adventures at a muddy farm."

"How do you know?"

"Because I pretty well know what a farm is."

"Not a Central American one, my fine fellow. I dare say you will have to open your eyes wider than you think."

"Perhaps so," said Fitz, who was growing more good-humoured over his companion's frank, genial ways; "but I feel more disposed to shut my eyes up now, and to have a good sleep."

"Oh, don't do that! There will be plenty of time when it gets dark, and before then I hope we shall be off the river. We are slipping along pretty quickly now, and old Burgess is creeping closer in. That's his artfulness; it means looking out for creeks and islands, places where we could hide if the gunboat came into sight, or sneaking into shallows where she couldn't follow. The old man knows what he is about, and so does father too. Here, let's go and fetch a glass and get up aloft. I want to make out what the coast is like."

The binocular was fetched from the cabin, and the lads mounted the rigging as high as they could to get comfortably perched, and then shared the glass, turn and turn, to come to the conclusion that every knot they crept along through the shallow sea brought them more and more abreast of a district that looked wild and beautiful in the extreme: low mountain gorge and ravine, beautiful forest clothing the slopes, and parts where the country was green with the waving trees almost to the water's-edge.

And so the day slipped by, and the sun began to sink just as they glided into a narrow sheltered estuary, which, as far as they could make out, ran like a jagged gash inland; and an hour later the schooner was at anchor behind a headland which completely bid them from the open sea.

"There," cried Poole, turning to the middy, who was sweeping the forest-clad slopes on either hand, "what do you think of this?"

"Lovely!" cried Fitz enthusiastically, forgetting all his troubles in the wondrous tropic beauty of the golden shores.

"Come on, then. I don't know what Andy has got us for supper, but it smells uncommonly good."

"Supper!" said the middy, in tones of disgust. "Why, you can't leave a scene like this to go and eat?"

"Can't I?" cried Poole. "Do you mean to tell me that you are not hungry too?"

"Well, no," said Fitz, slowly, closing the glass; "I don't think I can. I didn't know how bad I was until you spoke."



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

A TROPIC RIVER.

Strict watch was set, no lights were shown, and a quiet, uneventful night was passed, the boys sleeping so hard that it was with some difficulty that they were awakened, to start up wondering that it was day.

"Why," cried Fitz, "I feel as if I had only just lain down."

It proved, though, that they had each had nine hours' solid sleep, and after a hasty breakfast, preparations were made for ascending the river. The men were armed, the largest boat lowered, and Fitz hung about watching eagerly all that was going on; but, too proud to ask questions, he waited to see how matters would shape themselves.

As he expected, Poole came to him after a time, and in answer to the middy's questioning looks said eagerly—

"The Don's hacienda is right up this river somewhere, and the dad is going up in a boat with about half the lads, to see how the land lies, while old Burgess stops at home and takes care of the Teal. And I suppose he will have to take care of you too, you being a prisoner who don't take any interest in what we do. What do you think?"

"Think? That I shouldn't do any harm if I came with you, should I?"

"Well, I don't know," said Poole, with mock seriousness. "You wouldn't like to come too with me?" Fitz looked at him blankly.

"It's going to be quite an expedition. The lads are going to have rifles and plenty of ammunition; revolvers too. I am going to have the same, because there is no knowing what sort of fellows we may meet. But, as the dad says, if they see we are well-armed they won't meddle with us. In these revolutionary times, though, every one is on the rampage and spoiling for a fight. Pity you can't go with us." Fitz was silent.

"You see, I could have arranged it nicely. We might have had old Andy to carry a couple of bags, and you could have had the governor's double gun, and looked after the pot. We should have had you blazing away right and left as we went up the river at everything that the Camel said was good to eat. You would soon have filled both the bags, of course."

"Look here," said Fitz, "none of your sneers! I dare say if I tried I could shoot as well as you can."

"Sneers!" cried Poole, with mock solemnity. "Hark at him! Why should I sneer about your filling the bags when you are not going? Of course you wouldn't. You'd think it wouldn't be right. I thought of all that, and said so to father."

Fitz coughed, and then said huskily—

"What did he say?"

"What did he say? Well—"

"Why don't you speak?" cried Fitz angrily.

"You might give a fellow time. What did father say?"

"Yes, of course!"

"Oh, he said he didn't like much shooting, because he did not want the enemy to know we were up the river, but that if I saw anything in the shape of a deer or a big bird, or anything else good to eat, I was to fire."

"Hah!" sighed Fitz, as he saw himself spending a lonely day on board.

"Hah!" sighed Poole, in imitation. "I wish you had been going too."

Fitz looked at him searchingly.

"There!" he cried. "You are gammoning me."

Poole could not keep it in; his face expanded into a broad grin.

"I knew you were," cried Fitz.

"Yes, it's all right, old chap. The governor said that you were to come, for he didn't think that there would be any trouble, and it would be a pleasant change for you."

"Your father is a regular trump," cried Fitz excitedly. "I say, though; I should have liked to have a gun."

"Well, you are going to have his. I'll carry a rifle, so as to bring down all the bucks."

"How soon do we start?"

"Directly. Old Burgess is looking as blue as Butters' nose because he has got to stop at home, and Butters himself is doing nothing else but growl. He didn't like it a bit when the dad said that he must be tired after the other night's work. But he's got to stop."

Half-an-hour later the well-manned boat was being pulled vigorously up the rapidly narrowing river, with the two boys in the bows, on the look-out for anything worthy of powder and shot which might appear on either bank; but there was nothing save beauty to recompense their watchful eyes.

Birds were plentiful enough, and of the loveliest plumage, while every now and then a loud splash followed the movement of what seemed to be a log of wood making the best of its way into deep water. And once high in a mighty tree which shot up its huge bole from the very mud of the bank, Poole pointed out a curious knot of purple, dull buff and brown, right in the fork where a large branch joined the bole. "Not a serpent, is it?" whispered Fitz. "It is, though," was the reply; and the middy raised his piece.

"No, no; don't shoot," said Poole softly. "It isn't good to eat, and we might be giving the alarm."

Fitz lowered the double gun with a sigh, and the boat glided on, sending the rushing water in a wave to go lapping amongst the bushes that overhung from the bank, and directly after the serpent knot was hidden by the leaves.

The rapid little river wound here and there, and they went on mile after mile, with the steamy heat growing at times almost unbearable. But the men did not murmur, tugging away at their oars and seeming to enjoy the beauty of the many scenes through which they passed, for every now and then the river widened out, to look like some shut-in lake. And so mile after mile was passed, no spot where they could land presenting itself in the dense jungle which covered the banks, and it was not till afternoon that at a sudden turn they came upon an opening which had evidently been produced by the axe, while a short distance farther on at a word from the skipper the progress of the boat was checked at a roughly-made pier of piles driven into the mud, to which were pinned huge sticks of timber, beyond which was a rough corduroy road leading evidently to something in the way of civilisation.

"It must be up here somewhere, boys," said the skipper. "Two of you stop as keepers, my lads, while we land and go and see. The hacienda must certainly be hereabouts from the description Don Ramon gave;" and as all stepped on to the rough timber pier, the skipper instructed the boat-keepers to get well under shelter out of the sun and to keep strict watch, before leading the way along the wooded road through the thick growth which had newly sprung up amongst the butts of the great trees that had been felled or burned off level with the soil.

It must not be judged from this, that it was any scene of desolation, for every stump and relic of fallen tree was ornamented with lovely orchids, or wreathed with tangling vines. Butterflies of the most vivid hues fluttered here and there in the glorious sunshine, while humming-birds literally flashed as they darted by.

The clearing had evidently been the work of many men, and it was plain to see what the place must have been before the axe was introduced, by the dense mass of giant trees that stood up untouched a couple of hundred yards on either side—the primaeval forest in its glory, untouched by man.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

A NIGHT WATCH.

It was not many minutes later when, attracted by a group of the lovely insects playing about the shrubs that were in full bloom, Fitz had hung back, making them an excuse while he rested, standing mopping his face, streaming with perspiration, while Poole, no less willing to enjoy a few minutes' halt, stood looking back watching him.

Meanwhile the skipper had gone on, closely followed by the men, and passed out of sight. And then the few minutes became a few minutes more, neither of the lads noting the lapse of time, for everything around was so beautiful that they had no thought for the task in hand, nor fear of being interrupted by any of the enemy who might be near.

Everything was so dreamy and beautiful that Poole cast his eyes around in search of some fallen trunk, with the idea that nothing could be more delightful than to sit down there in the shade and drowse the time away.

Then he was awake again, for from somewhere ahead, but so far off that it sounded quite faint, there came a shout—

"Ahoy! Poole!"

The lad ran, rifle in hand, to answer his father's call, but only to stop short to look round sharply, feeling that he was leaving Fitz behind.

"Oh, there you are," he cried, as he caught sight of the lad following swiftly after. "I thought that you were not coming."

"I was obliged to. You don't suppose that I want to be left alone here by myself?"

"No, I suppose not. 'Tis a wild spot. It wouldn't be very pleasant if one of the enemy came upon you. You'd be rather safer along with us. Come on; we had better run. Mind how you come. These logs are rather slippery where the sun doesn't shine."

"Yes, and you had better mind, or some of this tangled stuff that's growing up between will trip you up. Rather awkward if your gun went off."

A few minutes later they came up to where the skipper was standing waiting for them.

"Found the place, father?"

"Yes; it's just over yonder in a clearing beyond those trees."

"Where are the men?"

"Inside the house."

"Has Don Ramon come?"

"No. There's not a soul in sight. I can't see any signs of a fight, but it looks to me as if the enemy had been destroying all they came across. I hope they didn't come upon him and take him prisoner, but it looks very bad."

"What shall you do, father?"

"What he told me, my boy: take possession, and hold it if the enemy come back. I have told the men to try and knock up a breastwork and close up the windows. To put it into a state of defence is not possible, but they can make it look stronger, and it will be better than the open jungle if those mongrel scoundrels do come on. Winks is there with half-a-dozen men; join them and superintend. Make them stick to it hard. I am afraid of their thinking that there is no danger, and taking it too coolly."

"All right, father," said Poole, giving Fitz a glance as he stood ready for starting off.

"Oh, by the way, Mr Burnett, I am sorry to have got you into this trouble. It doesn't seem the thing, does it? But I can't help myself. I daren't let you get into the hands of the enemy, for they are a shady lot. Only please mind this; you are a looker-on, and you are not to fight."

"Of course not, sir," cried Fitz.

"Well, don't forget it. Let's have none of your getting excited and joining in, if the row does begin. But it's hardly likely. If the scoundrels see a strong-looking place they will give it a wide berth. But if they do come, just bear this in mind; you are a spectator, and not to fire a shot."

"I shall not forget my position, sir," said Fitz quietly. "That's right. You can't be in a safer place than in the shelter of Ramon's farm. Off with you, Poole. I will join you soon."

The two lads trotted off, and as they ran on side by side, Fitz said rather testily—

"Your father needn't have talked to me like that. 'Tisn't likely that I should join in such a fight as this."

"Of course not," said Poole coolly; "only you look rather warlike carrying that double gun."

"Absurd! A sporting piece, loaded with small shot!" cried Fitz.

"Not so very small," said Poole, laughing. "I shouldn't like it to be loaded with them by any one firing at me. Oh, there's the hacienda yonder. I heard of this place when I was here before. It's a sort of summer-house near the river and sea, where Don Ramon used to come. My word, though, how it seems to have been knocked about! It looks as if there had been fighting here. The grounds have all been trampled down, and the porch has been torn away."

"What a pity!" cried Fitz, as he trotted up, with his gun at the trail. "It must have been a lovely place. Oh, there are some of our men."

"Yes," said Poole, smiling to himself and giving a little emphasis to one word which he repeated; "there are some of 'our' men. Look at old Chips scratching his head."

For the carpenter on hearing their approach had stepped out into the wrecked verandah, and two or three of the sailors appeared at the long low windows belonging to one of the principal rooms.

"Oh, here y'are, Mr Poole, sir!" cried the carpenter, waving his navy straw hat and giving it two or three vicious sweeps at the flies. "Just the very gent as I wanted to see. How are yer, Mr Burnett, sir? Warm, aren't it? Don't you wish you was a chips, sir?" he added sarcastically, as Fitz gave him a friendly nod.

"A chips? A carpenter, Winks?" said Fitz. "No; why should I?"

"Of course not, sir. Because if you was you would be every now and then having some nice little job chucked at your head by the skipper."

"Why, of course," cried Poole. "What are you on board the schooner for?"

"Oh, nothing at all, sir—only to stop leaks and recaulk, cut sticks out of the woods to make new spars and yards, build a new boat now and then, or a yard or two of bulwark or a new keel. Just a few little trifles of that sort. It's just like so much play. Here's the very last of them. Nice little job ashore by way of a change. Skipper's fresh idea. He didn't say so, but seems to me as if he means to retire from business, and this 'ere's going to be his country house."

"And a very nice place too," said Fitz, laughing. "It only wants doing up."

"That's right, sir," cried the carpenter; "only just wants doing up, and a bit of paint, and then all you'd have to do would be to order a 'technicum van or two of new furniture out of Totney Court Road, or elsewhere. And an other nice little job for me to lay down the carpets and hang the picturs, and it would be just lovely."

"Well, you seem in a nice temper, Chips," said Poole.

"Temper, Mr Poole! Why, I feel as soft and gentle as a baby. I arn't got nothing to grumble at."

"And if you had you are the very last person in the world to say a word; eh, Chips?"

"Hear that, Mr Burnett, sir? That's Mr Poole, that is! He's known me two years and a narf, which means ever since he come on his first voyage, when I teached him how to handle an adze without cutting off his pretty little toes. If ever I wanted my character, Mr Burnett, sir, I should refer captains and other such to Mr Poole Reed, as knows me from the top of my head down to the parts I put lowest in my shoes."

"Look here, Chips, I want you to get to work. Whatever is the matter now?"

"Oh, nothing at all, sir; nothing at all! Carn't you see how I am smiling all over my face?"

"Oh yes, I know your smile. Now then, speak out. What do you want? What is there wrong?"

"Oh, nothing worth speaking of, Mr Poole. I arn't the sort of fellow to grumble, Mr Burnett, sir; but now just look here, gentlemen.—Get out, will you! Bother the flies! I wish I could 'ford to keep a nigger with a whisk made out of a horse's tail. They are regular tarrifying me to-day. I wouldn't keer if I could kill one now and then; but I carn't. Either they're too fast or I'm too slow. But now just look here, both on you, gentlemen. Here's a pretty position for a fellow to be in! Nobody can't say even in this hot country as I arn't willing to work my spell, but here's the skipper says to me, he says, 'I want you to do everything you can,' he says; 'take what men you want, and make this 'ere aitch—he—hay—ender as strong as you can.' Now, I ask you, just give your eyes a quick turn round the place and tell me, as orficers as knows what's what, how am I to make a thing strong as arn't strong, and where there arn't a bit of stuff to do it with? For what's the good of a lot of bamboo-cane when what one wants is a load of good honest English oak, or I wouldn't say no to a bit of teak."

"Well, it is a ramshackle sort of place, certainly, Chips."

"Ramshackle, sir? Why, a ramshackle shed is a Tower of London to it. It's just a bandbox, that's what it is—just one of them chip and blue paper things the same as my old mother used to keep her Sunday bonnet in. Why, I could go to one end, shet my eyes, and walk through it anywhere. Why, it wouldn't even keep the wind out. Look at them windows—jalousies, as they calls them, in their ignorant foreign tongue. Look at 'em; just so many laths, like a Venetia blind. What's to be done to them? And then them doors. Why, they wouldn't keep a cat in, let alone a Spaniel out. I dunno what's to be done; and before I know where I am the skipper will be back asking me what I have been about. Do you know what I'm about? About off my head. A man can't make something out of nothing. Where's my tools? says you. Aboard the schooner. Where's the stuff to work with? Nowhere. Why, I aren't got so much as a tenpenny-nail. It's onreasonable; but I suppose it aren't no use to talk. Come on, my lads, and let's see. Axes here. Get one in between them two floor-boards and wedge one of them out—that's the style!" And as he spoke, rip, rip, crack! the board was wrenched out of its place, leaving a long opening and easy access to the boards on either side. "Steady there, mates; don't lose a nail. They are very poor ones, and only rusty iron now, but just you handle them as if they was made of gold. That's your sort. We'll just nail them boards up across the lower parts of them windows, far enough apart for us to fire through, and when that's done they'll make a show if they don't do anything else. It'll satisfy the skipper; but as to keeping the bullets out, when the beggars begin to fire, why, Mr Poole, sir, I believe I could take half-a-dozen of them little sugar-loaf-shaped bits of lead in my mouth and stand outside and blow them through.—What do you say, Camel? Where's a hammer? There are dozens of them, mate, in High Street, Liverpool, at any price from one-and-six up to two bob. Did you leave your head aboard the schooner?"

"Did I leave my head aboard the schooner? What are you talking about?" growled the cook.

"Thought perhaps you had left it in the galley, stood up in one of the pots to keep it safe till you got back. Turn the axe round and use the head of that, stoopid. Chopper-heads was invented before hammers, I know."

"Well, you needn't be so nasty, mon," growled the cook.

"Make you nasty if you was set to cook a dinner without any fire, and no meat."

Andy grunted and began hammering away, helped by two of his messmates, who held the floor-boards in place while such nails as had come out of the joists were driven in.

Satisfied with this, the carpenter set to work at the end of one of the joists, using a sharp axe so deftly that the great wedge-like chips began to fly, and in a minute's time he had cut right through.

"That's your sort!" he cried. "Now, lads, two on you hoist up."

The men had hold of the freshly-cut end of the stout joist in an instant, raised it up, its length acting as a powerful lever, and it was wrenched out of its place, to be used beneath its fellows so dexterously that in a short time there was no longer any floor to the principal room of the hacienda, the joists being piled up on one side, and those who were in it stood now a couple of feet lower with the window-sills just on a level with their chests.

"Bravo! Splendid!" cried Fitz excitedly. "Why, that gives us a capital breastwork—bulwark, I mean—to fire over."

"Yes," cried Poole, "and plenty of stuff, Chips, for you to barricade the doors."

"Barricade the doors, sir? You mean stop 'em up, I suppose. But how? Arn't got a big cross-cut saw in your pocket, have you?"

"Go on, old chap, and don't chatter so," cried Poole. "Break them in half."

"Nice tradesman-like job that'll make, sir! It is all very fine to talk. Here, stand aside, some on you. I never was in a hurry but some thick-headed foremast-man was sure to get in the way. Let's see; where's my rule? Yah! No rule, no pencil, no square. Lay that there first one down, mates. What are they? About twelve foot. Might make three out of each of them."

One of the joists was laid on the earth close to a collection of dry leaves.

"Looks like an old rat's nest," said Fitz. "Like enough, sir, only we haven't no time to hunt 'em. Sure to be lots in a place like this."

"Yes, I can smell them," said Poole—"that nasty musky odour they have!"

The carpenter paced along beside the joist, dividing it into three, and made a notch in two places with his axe, to begin the next minute delivering a sharp blow or two where he intended to break the joist. But at the first stroke the violent jar made the far end of the joist leap and come heavily down upon the gathered-together nest of leaves.

"Wo-ho!" cried the carpenter. "Steady there!"

"Eh, mon! Look at that!" yelled the cook, as there was a scuffling rush, and a thickish snake, about seven feet long, dashed out from its nest and made for the door.

There was a yell of dismay, and the men rushed here and there for the windows, to escape, the boys as eager as their companions.

It was only the carpenter who stood firm, and he made a chop with his axe at the reptile's tail, but only to drive the blade into the dry earth a yard behind.

"After him, Camel!" he roared. "Don't lose him, lad! He'd do to cook like a big eel. Yah, butter-fingers! You let him go! Why didn't you try and catch him by the tail? Here, come back, all of you. Take hold of a joist or two and stir up them nest-like places in the corners. I dare say there's some more. We shall be hungry by and by. Don't let good dinners go begging like that. Here, Mr Burnett, sir, and you, Mr Poole, never you mind them cowardly lubbers; come inside and have a hunt. It'll be a regular bit of sport."

"Thanks, no," said Fitz, who was looking in through one of the windows, Poole following his example at another.

"You had better mind, Chips," said the latter. "I dare say there are several more there, and they may be poisonous."

"So am I, sir," said the carpenter, grinning. "Just you ketch hold of my axe."

"What are you going to do?" said Poole, as he took hold of the handle.

"You stand by a moment, sir," said the carpenter, picking up the joist upon which he had been operating, and holding it as if it were a lance. "I am going to poison them."

As he spoke he drove the end right into a heap of Indian corn-husks that lay in the first corner, the blow being followed by a violent rustling, and another snake made its appearance, not to dash for the door, but turning, wriggling, and lashing about as it fought hard till it wriggled itself free of the little beam which had pinned it into the corner, crushing its vertebra about a third of its length from the head, and ending by tying itself in a knot round the piece of wood and holding on.

"Below there!" shouted the carpenter. "Stand clear!"

He advanced towards Fitz with the joist, and as the boy leaped back he thrust out the piece of wood, resting the middle on the window-sill.

"Here you are, Camel," he cried; "fresh meat, all skewered for you like a bun on a toasting-fork. Look alive, old haggis, and take him off. He's a fine un, Master Poole. I can't abear to see waste."

Fitz and Poole both stepped back, and at that moment with one quick writhe the little serpent seemed to untie itself, dropping to the ground limply, writhed again as if to tie itself into a fresh knot, and then stretched itself out at full length.

"Take care, Mr Burnett, sir," cried the carpenter, hastily taking from Poole and holding out the axe he had been using. "Don't go too near. Them things can be precious vicious. Ketch hold of this and drop it on to him just behind his head."

"No, no, don't, Fitz!" cried Poole. "Look at its little fiery eyes. It may strike."

"Not it," cried Fitz. "Chips has spoiled all his fighting for good;" and taking a step or two forward with the axe he had snatched from the carpenter's hand, he made one quick cut and drove it into the earth, for the blade to be struck at once by the serpent's head, while the ugly coils were instantaneously knotted round the haft.

Fitz involuntarily started back, leaving the axe-handle with its ugly load standing out at an angle, and the two lads stood watching the serpent's head as the jaws parted once or twice and then became motionless, while the folds twisted round the stout ash-handle gradually grew lax and then dropped limply and loosely upon the earth, ending by heaving slightly as a shudder seemed to run from the bleeding neck right to the tail.

"He's as good as dead, gentlemen," said the carpenter. "He won't hunt no more rats under this place. Give me my chopper, please; I am thinking there are a few more here. Let's have 'em out, or they'll be in the way and get their tails trodden on when the fighting begins."

"Yes, let's have them out, Chips," cried Poole; "but be careful. They may be poisonous, and savage with being disturbed."

"Oh yes, I'll be careful enough," cried the carpenter; and raising the joist again he stepped back from the window and drove it into another corner of the room, the boys peering in through the nearest window and eagerly watching for the result.

"Nothing here," cried the carpenter, after giving two heavy thrusts. "Yes, there is. Here's a little baby one. Such a little wriggler! A pretty one too; seems a pity to kill him."

"No, no," cried Fitz, as he watched the active movements of the little snake that suddenly raised itself like a piece of spiral spring, its spade-shaped head playing about menacingly about a foot from the ground.