The Pirate of Panama Part 13

My skeptical laugh must have annoyed him.

"Then you'd better get busy if it's true that we sail to-morrow."

"Hope you'll have a pleasant trip."

"Thanks. Sorry we can't ask you, captain. But there really isn't room and our party is full. No doubt you'll be starting on a little jaunt of your own soon?"

"Yes, to-morrow, too, as it happens. Perhaps we may meet again. It's a small world after all, Mr. Sedgwick."

"We'll look out for you."

"Do. And go prepared for squalls. One never knows what may happen. The Pacific is treacherous. Likely enough you'll meet dirty weather."

"I'm thinking you're right. But the yacht is good for it."

"And the yacht's pa.s.sengers?" he asked with angled brows.

"We're all good sailors."

"But isn't there a good deal of yellow fever in Panama?"

"Not now. There used to be."

"Haven't I heard of pirates in the Isthmus country?" he asked, smiling with superb impudence.

"That's in the past too, captain; but if we meet any, the vermin will be glad to sheer off. I'll promise you that."

The villain drew a breath of mock relief.

"That makes my mind easier, Mr. Sedgwick. I'll confess I've been a little troubled for you."

"Thanks for your kind thoughts, but I'm confident we can look out for ourselves."

Our words had been light enough, but be sure there was no laughter in the eyes that fastened each pair to the other. For me, I never was more vigilant in my life--and Bothwell knew it.

"Going up-town, captain? If not I'll say good evening."

He nodded genially.

"Pleasant voyage. And _do_ be careful of the squalls and the fever and the pirates. Do you know I can't help thinking you had better leave Evie at home for me to take care of."

"But you're leaving, too, I understood you to say. No, we'll take good care of her. I give you my word on that."

I had been edging round him with the intention of backing away. He held out his hand, but--well, my fingers were otherwise engaged. They still caressed a k.n.o.bby bit of metal in my overcoat pocket.

At the last moment, so it appeared, he yielded to an impulse.

"Must we really be in opposite camps, Mr. Sedgwick? Come! Let's arrange a compromise. Neither of us alone has enough to go on. You need me and my sc.r.a.p of map. I need you and your bit of chart. We'll consolidate forces and go to Panama together."

"Afraid you're a little late, captain. You play your hand and we'll play ours."

I had been increasing the distance between us. Now I turned sharply on my heel and walked away almost at a run, for I did not like the idea of taking with me a bullet in the small of my back.

At the end of the wharf a figure brushed past me. Night had begun to fall, and in the gray dusk I could not make sure, but again I was oddly struck by its resemblance to our engineer, Fleming. I slued around my head to look a second time, but the fog had already swallowed him.

Strange, I thought, that he had not recognized me; but perhaps, if the man was Fleming, he had found me too indistinct to know.

At any rate it was a matter of no great importance. I pushed past the warehouse to take an up-town car.

CHAPTER VIII

ABOARD THE ARGOS

Blythe and I had agreed that an attempt would be made to relieve us of the map while we were carrying it from the safety-deposit vault to the s.h.i.+p. So far as we could see it was Bothwell's last chance to gain possession of the coveted chart, and he was not the man to leave a stone unturned.

At half past three we drove in the car of a friend to the International Safe Deposit Company's place of business. He waited outside while we went in to reclaim the doc.u.ment.

Five minutes later we reappeared, the paper in the inside pocket of my tightly b.u.t.toned coat. My eyes explored to right and left.

The thunder of trolley cars, the rumble of wholesale wagons, the buzz of automobiles, all made their contribution to the roar of the busy canon up and down which men and women pa.s.sed by hundreds. That Bothwell would make an attempt at a hold-up here seemed inconceivable. But if not here, then--where? He had to have the map or give up the fight.

Blythe followed me into the tonneau and our car swept out into the stream of traffic. Less than a quarter of an hour later we stepped down from the machine, shook hands with our friend, and took the boat which was waiting for us at the wharf. Even now we were alert, ready for any emergency that might occur.

Nothing happened, except our safe arrival at the _Argos_. Miss Wallace and her aunt were on deck to welcome us. Sam and I exchanged rather sheepish glances. n.o.body likes to be caught making a mountain out of a mole hill, and that was apparently what we had done. Our elaborate preparations to defend the map during the past half hour had been unnecessary.

"Tide right, Mr. Mott?" Blythe asked.

"All right, sir."

"Then we'll start at once."

I retired to my cabin, disposed of a certain doc.u.ment, and presently returned to the deck. The engines were throbbing and the _Argos_ was beginning to creep.

"We're off," I said to Miss Wallace, who was standing by my side on the bridge deck leaning upon the rail.

"Yes, we're off. Luck with us," she cried softly with s.h.i.+ning eyes.

I looked at her and smiled. The excitement that burned in her I could understand, since I too shared it. We were answering the call of the sea and its romance was tingling in our blood. Into what wild waters we were to be whirled none of us had the slightest guess. It was fortunate that the future was screened by a veil behind which we could not peep.

The quiver of the engines grew stronger. The _Argos_ was walking smartly out into the bay, her funnels belching black smoke. A stiff wind was blowing and the vessel leaped as she took the waves. Behind us in the falling dusk the lights of the city began to come out like stars.

"I wonder when we'll see her again," my companion said softly, her gaze on the hill of twinkling lights.

Like a Winged Victory her fine, lithe figure was outlined by the wind, which had flung back the white skirt against the slender limbs, showing the flowing lines as she moved. In her jaunty yachting cap, the heavy chestnut hair escaping in blowing tendrils, a warmer color whipped into her soft cheeks by the breeze, there was a sparkle to her gayety, a champagne tang to her animation. One guessed her an Ionian G.o.ddess of the sea reincarnated in the flesh of a delightful American girl.