The Dreadnought Boys Aboard a Destroyer

BY
CAPTAIN WILBUR LAWTON

Author of “The Boy Aviators Series,” “The Dreadnought Boys on Battle Practice,” etc. etc.

NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

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Copyright, 1911,
BY
HURST & COMPANY

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The Dreadnought Boys Aboard
a Destroyer

“Pardon me—but surely I am not mistaken,—you two young men are brave sailors on board the Beale?”

“Hum; don’t know about the ‘brave sailor’ part of it,” smiled Ned Strong pleasantly, as the dark-skinned speaker halted him and his companion Herc Taylor in the shadow of the gray wall of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. “We are on board the Beale, though, or will be shortly.”

The man who had addressed the two stalwart, sunburned young fellows wearing the natty uniform of Uncle Sam’s sea-fighters flourished his silver-headed cane as if in token of having attained an object.

“The Beale—the torpedo-boat destroyer?” he asked, as if he were anxious to make quite sure of his ground.

“Yes, sir,” said Ned, briskly taking up his suit-case, as if about to start off again. He had set down the piece of baggage when the stranger first addressed them.

“One moment,” demanded the fashionably dressed first speaker, who spoke with a trace of foreign accent, “since you are on board that craft, you must come with me.”

Ned looked astonished at the other’s brusque manner of address. As for Herc Taylor, the red-headed, his freckles shone pinkly under his tan.

“I guess you’re a foreigner, sir, aren’t you?” he asked gently.

“Why, yes, senor,” the other twisted his little waxed mustache nervously, “but I——”

“I guessed it,” went on Herc serenely, “because in the United States we have a foolish habit of saying ‘please’ if we wish anything done.”

“Well, ‘please,’ then, senor. Come, I wish to talk with you, please. I know a place, not equal to the Hotel Espanola, perhaps, but where we can get a good drink——”

“Count us out then,” snapped Ned sharply, “we don’t drink.”

The stranger placed his thumb and forefinger together, elevated them to a level with his chin and, after gazing at them for a second, gave a light:

“Pouf!”

“He’ll blow away if he does that again,” muttered Herc. But apparently the man of the waxed mustache had been only taking this way of dismissing any possible offense he might have caused. He bowed low.

“Ah, well, I have made a mistake, I see. Of course not. Zee brave sailors of the Uncle Sam do not drink, nevaire. Perhaps, then, you will do me the honor of accompanying me to that drug store at the corner. I see they sell ice-cream sodas there. Will you try one of those?”

This was touching Herc Taylor in a weak spot. He gazed at his companion inquiringly. But Ned Strong’s eyes were riveted on the small wicket gate which opened in the long, gray-painted wall, a few feet from where they were standing. The wall inclosed the humming hive of activity known as the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Inside the gate stood a marine, sharply scanning all arrivals. It was his duty to protect the gateway to one of Uncle Sam’s ship hospitals, where everything from a rib to a rivet can be adjusted or replaced, even on the largest Dreadnoughts.

“We ought to report at ten-thirty. It’s ten now,” he said, gazing at a handsome gold watch he had just drawn out of his breast pocket. Inside the case it bore an inscription, “Presented to Ned Strong from Henry Varian, in slight token of the inestimable services rendered by him at Guantanamo, Cuba.”

Readers of the “Dreadnought Boys on Battle Practice” will recall the occasion which Mr. Varian, the inventor of the powerful explosive Chaosite, had thus chosen to commemorate. The watch had been presented to Ned Strong, as an ordinary seaman on board the big Dreadnought Manhattan. At the risk of his own life he had saved Mr. Varian from some rascals who had abducted him, and under the threat of blowing him up, had tried to compel the inventor to give up the formula of his explosive and the blue prints of a patent gun-breech of his devising for handling the stuff. It was Ned Strong’s ingenuity and pluck, it will be recalled, which had resulted in the plans of these men being a complete failure, and in their all being sentenced to long prison terms.

Closely following on this adventure, for which he received the congratulations of his own commander and also of the rear-admiral of the fleet, Ned Strong and Herc Taylor had behaved with singular gallantry just after the eruption in the forward turret of a dreaded “flareback.” At great risk they closed the safety doors, which had jammed, and then carried several unconscious men, including Lieutenant Timmons, the officer in charge, from the inferno of smoke and deadly gas. For this, readers of that volume will recall, both had been awarded medals of honor. Thus, in a few short months following their enlistment from the remote New York State village of Lamb’s Corners, both had become national heroes—that is, during the brief period of public memory. Had the recollection of their gallant deed not died out in the public mind, it is doubtful if the man who had accosted them would have chosen just these two youths who had so fully deeded their lives to their country and their flag.

“All right, we will go with you,” said Ned briskly, as if he had suddenly come to some private conclusion.

“Ah, zat is good,” smiled the dark-skinned individual. “I am glad you have come to zat determination.”

He started briskly off, headed for the drug store and followed by the two young man-of-war’s men.

As the boys were a short distance behind him, they had an opportunity to exchange a word or two as they went.

“Say, Ned,” began Herc, in a tone of remonstrance, “what’s the matter with you?”

“You don’t like the looks of that fellow?”

“No more than I like the looks of a skunk with its tail swung toward me.”

“Hush, he may hear you. I’ve got a good reason for going with him.”

“All right, then. What you say goes.”

This brief exchange of words brought them to the drug store, the interior of which looked cool and inviting, in contrast with the glaring sidewalk, for it was a hot day in early June.

Presently the trio were seated at a small table in the rear of the store, which was empty for the moment of customers.

“Ah, that sounds good,” exclaimed Herc approvingly, as the long, cool fizz-z-z-z of the fountain announced that their refreshments were being drawn.

The stranger bent forward as the red-headed lad spoke, and in a cautious voice said:

“But I have something to talk to you about which will sound bettaire.”

“So?” said Ned carelessly, as the soda glasses were placed in front of them, and Herc at once buried his nose in pink, creamy foam, “What is it?”

“Hush! Do not speak so loud. I don’t want it that any one should hear us.”

“Oh, then, it’s sort of secret business?”

“Zat is eet. You are a young man of penetration.”

“You’d say so if you saw him wading into any one he doesn’t like,” grinned Herc, setting down his empty glass and investigating its depths with a spoon.

The clerk was instantly at his elbow. The stranger looked up angrily at the store attendant.

“What are you doing listening here?” he demanded sharply.

“I wasn’t listening,” expostulated the aggrieved clerk, “I came to see if this gentleman wanted any more.”

“Bring us all three some, and then keep away,” grunted the black-mustached foreigner aggressively.

“Make mine vanilla this time,” ordered Herc.

“One nevaire knows who may be a spy,” explained the stranger, as the clerk brought the new order, and then busied himself, out of earshot, in the front of the store.

“Well, we’re not afraid of any spies,” returned Herc Taylor, giving the stranger a searching look.

“Oh, no, of course not. Zee brave sailor of Uncle Sam——”

“Never mind that,” interrupted Ned, “you brought us here, you said, to talk to us about something important—what?”

“You young men have heard of the Republic of Costaveza?”

“Of course, that tamale-eating South American merry-go-round,” blurted out Herc, “that’s where the Beale is bound for—so I heard,” he added rather confusedly. He had caught Ned’s eye, and he thought it held a reproof for his outspokenness.

“You are pairfectly right,” assented the other. “Now, there is an opportunity to make what you call zee big money down there, for two bright young men like you.”

“How?” inquired Ned bluntly.

This directness seemed to confuse somewhat the dark-skinned man, who, like most of his race, which was Latin-American, preferred intrigues and dark hints to coming straight to the point.

“Why,” he began, and then paused, as if searching for a word, “by—by keeping zee eyes open.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let me explain. The Republic of Costaveza is now in a state of revolution.”

The boys nodded.

“The United States government is not friendly to the rebels, but dare not show zat this ees the case. It would not be consistent with her policies to interfere.”

“Well, what’s all this got to do with us?” asked Ned in the same direct way. He was growing to like the mysterious manner of the stranger less and less.

“Wait a moment, and you will see. In Costaveza there are, however, many very important American interests—mining, lumber, asphalt and so on. In the event of the rebels gaining power—which Heaven soon send—the policy of the new government would be Costaveza for the Costavezans. You follow me?”

“You mean that if the rebellion succeeds the property of the Americans, which they have paid for and developed, will be confiscated. Is that it?” questioned Ned.

“Exactly. Now, as I said, the United States dares not openly interfere. Her treaties with other nations prevent that. But just the same, she wishes to look after her citizens.”

“You bet she does,” put in Herc fervently.

“Now, the rebels are well armed. They have modern guns and equipment of every kind. Where has this been coming from?”

“Search me,” blurted out Herc, on whose freckled countenance the other’s dark eyes had fixed themselves.

“Hush, Herc!” reproved Ned. “Go on, sir.”

“It has come from the outside, from the good friends of the rebellion. Now, the only way to prevent the rebels winning the day is to head off their arms. Therefore, the American government sends a destroyer down there to guard her interests—but secretly, mind you.”

“Why don’t they send the fleet down there and blow the rebels into the sea?” asked Herc, who had not noted a fact which Ned’s keen observation had instantly taken in, and that was that the dark-skinned man was decidedly pro-rebel in his feelings. Carefully as he had tried to mask it in his talk, this fact stuck out to Ned as plainly as the nose on his face.

“That would not be diplomacy,” rejoined the stranger airily.

“No, but fine judgment,” added Herc sagely.

“Now, the point is this,” resumed the stranger, not noticing, or not deigning to notice, Herc’s remark, “we want to know what is going on on board the Beale every moment that she lies off the coast of Costaveza.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” thought Ned to himself. But aloud he said innocently:

“Did you say we, sir?”

“Yes. Why should I disguise it?” said the stranger, his eyes lighting up enthusiastically. “I am a patriot. The heart of Jules Charbonde bleeds for his unhappy country, and so——”

“And so, being a patriot yourself,” snapped out Ned, with blazing eyes, “you have come to ask us to betray our country.”

“Oh, no. Do not use so harsh a word, I beg of you. Not betray, but report what she is doing.”

“That is a very fine distinction,” said Ned in musing tone. The other, struck by his thoughtful tone and posture, too hastily assumed that his errand was complete. He extended a roll of bills and shoved them across the table, having first cautiously looked around him.

“You will make your reports when you arrive at Boca del Sierras, the principal city of Costaveza,” he said, “when your shore boat docks, a man will approach you and say, ‘A carriage, senors.’ You will go with him, and he will bring you to a place outside the city. Then you can make your reports, and——”

“Then we get more money?” inquired Ned in level tone, although danger signals gleamed in his eyes.

“Why, yes. You see, your services will be very valuable. You can keep us informed of every move of the Beale. But now place that money in your pocket.”

“I don’t think so; I’ve another use for it,” said Ned quietly.

“Another use for it, senor, why——”

“This!” shot out the Dreadnought Boy, springing to his feet and flinging the roll of bills at the South American agent. It hit the dark-skinned fellow full in the face, and with such force was it hurled that a dark patch burned out against his countenance where it had struck. Jules Charbonde’s skin went a sickly yellow. His eyes glittered as balefully as a serpent’s.

“So,” he snarled, “you insult a South American gentleman?”

“Gentleman!” scoffed Ned, “We’ve another name for fellows who practice your sort of trade.”

The clerk, alarmed at the sound of loud voices, came hastening up.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded.

“How much is the bill?” asked Ned.

“Sixty cents. You had——”

“Here’s a dollar. Never mind the change. Come, Herc, let’s get out of here, or I’ll feel tempted to give that fellow a lesson.”

Together the two Dreadnought Boys hastened from the drug store, but the eyes of Jules Charbonde followed them with a menacing glint.

He raised his hand to his face, where the red spot still showed angrily.

“I’ll make you sorry for this,” he snarled, in his turn leaving the shop.

Suddenly he wheeled sharply. A hand had been laid on his elbow.

“I’d like to speak to you a minute,” said a low voice almost in his ear.

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Charbonde found himself facing a rather undersized youth of about the age of the two who had just left him. The newcomer had furtive, rat-like eyes, and a sharp face filled with a general expression of low cunning.

“Who are you?” demanded Charbonde. “I don’t know you.”

“I know you don’t,” responded the other easily, “and yet, I may be able to help you.”

“Bah!” began the foreign agent, trying to shake off the hand laid on his arm.

“Wait till you hear what I have to say,” resumed the other eagerly. “I hate those two blue-jackets who have just left you.”

A new light suddenly shone in Senor Charbonde’s eyes. He began to regard the furtive-looking youth with more interest.

“Who are you?” he demanded cautiously.

“My name won’t mean much to you. It’s Harkins—Henry Harkins. I was formerly in the navy, but I was dishonorably discharged, owing to those two fellows. I hate them.”

The tone in which this communication was made left no doubt of the speaker’s sincerity. His mean face grew positively wolfish as he spoke. Not even in his days aboard the Illinois, when he had joined Kennell, the ship’s bully of the Manhattan, and the other miscreants in abducting Ned and Mr. Varian, had Hank Harkins ever looked more despicable. For his part in the conspiracy, as our former readers know, Harkins, who hailed from the same village as the Dreadnought Boys, had been dishonorably discharged from the service. That the world had not gone well with him since then was manifest. His clothes were old and worn, and lines, which did not look well on a youthful countenance, marked his features. As Charbonde gazed at the figure before him, a sudden thought came to him. Here, ready-made to his hand, was a tool that he might find useful.

“So you would like to have an opportunity to avenge yourself on those two lads, is it not so?” he said slowly.

“I’d do almost anything to get even with them,” muttered Hank. “They are the cause of all my misfortunes. I’ve been broke for weeks, and have hardly known what it was to have a square meal.”

Hank did not think it necessary to add that his misfortunes, like his dishonorable discharge, were all of his own making. His father, sorely tried though he had been by the boy’s unsavory escapades, had written him to come home to the farm, but this Hank had refused to do permanently. Life in and about New York suited his vagabond disposition too well for that.

“Ah, you need money,” exclaimed Senor Charbonde.

“Yes, yes,” ejaculated Hank in a voice that came dangerously near to being a beggar’s whine. But if he thought Senor Charbonde was going to be so prodigal with his funds as to hand him a crisp bill, he was mistaken. Instead, the South American revolutionary agent tore a sheet out of a notebook he fished from his pocket and handed it to Hank, who gazed at it eagerly. It bore an address on West Fourteenth Street, New York,—that of a hotel famous as a rendezvous for foreign secret agents.

“Be there at three o’clock this afternoon, and perhaps I can put you in the way of making a little money.”

With these words Senor Charbonde swung on his carefully polished boot heel, and, twirling his stick gayly, started at his best pace to leave behind what was, to his fastidious taste, a very unsavory portion of the town. Hank, however, after a moment’s interval, had appraised the other’s prosperous appearance and pattered rapidly after him on his thin-worn shoe soles.

“Suppose you give me a little in advance?” he asked impudently.

The South American hesitated.

“Ah, well, perhaps it will bind him more closely to me,” he thought the next instant. Once more his jeweled hand dived into his pocket, and this time it produced a roll of bills—the same which was responsible for the pinkish mark on his yellow skin. Hank’s eyes glistened as they fell upon the dimensions of the roll. Eagerly he watched the other peel off a five-dollar bill.

“Thank you, thank you!” he exclaimed in a servile, fawning way, as Charbonde handed it to him.

“There is a fellow who would do anything for money,” thought the South American, as he resumed his way. “I have gained a valuable emissary.”

“That fellow’s a gold mine if he’s worked right. I’m in luck, and I’ll have a chance to get even with those two pious, psalm-singing lunk heads,” was Hank’s thought, as he shuffled off. An alliance had just been formed which boded ill for the Dreadnought Boys.

Hank made his way down the street past the gray walls fencing off the navy yard, and after walking two or three blocks turned into a drinking resort frequented by sailors and dock denizens. Hank flung down the bill he had just received in front of the proprietor.

“Take what I owe you out of that,” he said grandiloquently. The other lifted his eyebrows in some surprise, and then, abstracting from it the small amount for which he had allowed Hank to become indebted to him, returned the change. As the money and bills were shoved across to Hank, a heavy-set man, who had been seated at a table in one corner of the place, arose and came over to him.

“Hello! messmate,” he exclaimed, “in luck, eh?”

“Why, hello, Jim Prentice!” exclaimed Hank, recognizing in the other a former fireman of the Illinois, “how goes it?”

“Pretty well, shipmate, but low water here,” said the other, tapping his pocket suggestively. “Can you loan a fellow a few dimes?”

“Loan!” exclaimed Hank, not best pleased at this encounter, “why, it may be months before I see you again. You’re going to sea soon, aren’t you?”

He glanced toward where the other had been sitting and noted a battered telescope grip reposing beside his vacant chair.

“Yes, and a fine old tea-kettle of a stoke hole I’m assigned to. Aboard the Beale, that destroyer, you know. To make matters worse, we’re for South America, I hear. It’ll fairly roast a man to work under forced draught in that climate.”

“The Beale, eh?” mused Hank. “That’s the craft those two fellows are assigned to.”

He said this in a low voice, and it escaped the other’s hearing altogether. Presently he added aloud:

“When do you sail?”

“Some time to-morrow. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just curious, that’s all. So you need money, Jim?”

“Need it!” burst out the other, “why, boy, if shoes were five cents a pair, I couldn’t buy a heel. There’s my sister, too, Hank,” he went on in a serious voice, “she’s sick, and the doc says that she’s got to get away to the country or he won’t answer for her life. Oh, I’m up against it, all right, I tell you.”

A dim plan had begun to form itself in Hank’s mind as the other spoke, but as yet it had not assumed definite form. Instead, he remarked lightly:

“Oh, I guess it’ll come out all right, Jim. Here, take this”—he handed the other half a dollar—“and be here to-night at eight o’clock. I may have something to talk over with you.”

“All right, Hank, I’ll be here, don’t you worry.”

“So long, then,” exclaimed the other. “I’m off.”

With more energy than he had displayed for some time past Hank shot out of the door and off up the street. He spent his money to such good advantage that at the end of an hour he emerged from his small room in a rickety tenement,—which he preferred to an airy room and wholesome work on the farm,—with a clean collar and neatly slicked-down hair. His battered, broken boots, too, bore a glossy polish. But all Hank’s efforts to improve his appearance could not erase from his face that expression which instinctively made people loath and distrust him.

At the appointed time he was at the hotel mentioned by Senor Charbonde, and was closeted in deep consultation with that astute gentleman for an hour or more. When he came out his face bore a broad smile—or grin, rather, the former word hardly applying to Hank’s peculiar expression of satisfaction.

“So that’s the game, is it?” he muttered to himself, as he found his way to the crowded street. “Well, I’ll get the man you want and right on board the Beale, too, but you’ll have to pay for it, and pay heavy. Too bad, though, that the dago had to go and tell those boys about his plans. No use worrying about that, however. I guess I’m slick enough to fix them, or else——”

A cross-town car going in his direction passed before Hank had time to finish his train of thought. He swung himself on the back platform, but had hardly done so before he almost fell off again.

Facing him were the two last persons in the world he wished to see just then—Ned Strong and Herc Taylor. For their part, the Dreadnought Boys were almost as much astonished, though, of course, their feelings had a very different tinge.

The situation would have been embarrassing but for the fact that Hank, without a sign of recognition, dived rapidly forward into the crowd and soon was swallowed in a perfect sea of heads and shoulders.

“The last person I’d have thought of meeting,” gasped Ned.

“The last person I’d want to meet,” growled Herc, clutching an armful of bundles he held as vindictively as if he had Hank in his grip.

The Dreadnought Boys had been spending their last day ashore in getting a few necessities for the voyage.

“I noticed him in the crowd on the sidewalk before he boarded the car, and was going to draw your attention to him,” said Herc, “but I thought I must be mistaken.”

“What was he doing?”

“Why, he had just come down the steps of the Hotel Espanola.”

“The Hotel Espanola,” exclaimed Ned in an astonished voice. “Why, that’s the hotel that Charbonde mentioned this morning.”

“That’s right. By grandpa’s prize shoat, you don’t think Hank can be mixed up in that crooked South American thing?”

“I don’t know,” mused Ned slowly, as the car rattled along. “I’d be half inclined to believe anything of a chap who’d been dishonorably discharged from the United States navy.”

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The Beale, like the other vessels of her class, of which the Navy Department has built such numbers in recent years, was a long, low, waspish-looking craft. She was painted dark “war color,” with four squat funnels. On the foremost were three bands of yellow. A superstructure raised itself forward. Aft and amidships were business-like looking machine guns and torpedo-launching tubes. Altogether she was as wicked a looking instrument of war as one could imagine—well worthy of the sinister appellation—destroyer.

On the morning of the day on which she was to sail, Lieutenant Timmons, former gunnery officer of the Manhattan, did not step on board his speedy command till half an hour or so before sailing time. He found a scene of intense bustle and activity awaiting him. Last stores were being rushed on board, and the excitement that attends the last moments before the casting off of any vessel, from a mud scow to a battleship, was in the air.

From the Beale’s four stacks columns of black smoke were pouring, and white spurts of steam gushed from her escape pipes. She reminded one of an impatient horse champing his bit,—the bit in this case being the taut lines which held her to the navy yard wharf.

“Say, Herc, this is something like it,” observed Ned, as the two young men stood on the forward deck and watched the eager preparations going forward.

“Um, kind of like going to sea in a machine shop,” was Herc’s comment as he gazed about him at the wilderness of steel and mechanical contrivances. As Herc had said, the deck of a destroyer does not bear a material difference from the metal wilderness of a machine shop.

“Wait till we get outside,” grinned Ned; “if there are any whitecaps she’ll dance around like an empty bottle.”

“Woof!” grunted Herc, who still had a lively recollection of his first day at sea on the Manhattan. If that mighty Dreadnought was tumbled about like a plaything of the waves, what would happen to the little Beale? Herc dared not think about it.

“Say,” observed Ned suddenly, “I wonder what that fellow wants?”

He indicated, as he spoke, a man who had just paced by them. He was a stalwart figure, though rather thickset, and round his neck was a dirty towel, proclaiming that he belonged in the fire-room regions.

“Oh, just some lubberly fireman. Why does he interest you particularly?”

“Why, he’s been past us two or three times since we’ve been standing here, and each time he has given us the greatest sizing up. I thought at first he might know us.”

At this moment the fireman turned, having reached the limit of the superstructure, and came back toward them.

“Ever see him before?” asked Ned.

“Never,” rejoined Herc positively.

“Neither have I—of that I’m certain. I don’t like his looks much.”

“Well, thank goodness, we don’t come much in contact with that collection of lubberly ash-hoisters to which he belongs,” grinned Herc.

As usual, the red-headed lad spoke rather louder than he had intended. Just then a sudden lull came in the clatter and uproar of the last moments, and Herc’s words were distinctly heard by the other. He favored the two as he passed with a distinct scowl.

“There you go again, Herc,” reproved Ned. “That fellow heard what you said.”

“Well, he is one, isn’t he?” demanded the irrepressible youth. “An ash-hoister, I mean.”

“That’s no reason to tell him so. Now you, for instance——”

A long blast from the Beale’s siren interrupted him. Instantly boatswain’s mates’ whistles shrilled about the steel decks, and men scampered hither and thither, taking up their posts.

Ned and Herc hastened to theirs, while the orders to “Cast off” rang out sharp and clear. Instantly, like big snakes, the hawsers squirmed inboard, while steam winches rattled furiously. On the conning tower stood the figure of Lieutenant Timmons, with Ensign Gerard, his second in command, beside him.

“Ahead—slow!” he ordered.

A quartermaster shoved over the engine-room telegraph, and the steel decks began to vibrate beneath the boys’ feet. A small navy tug had hastily hitched on to the Beale’s “whale-back” bow, and hauled it round toward the river. Presently, however, this duty done, she, too, cast off. Thus left to her own power, the low, black destroyer glided out among the shipping on the East River, like a ferret slipping through a rabbit warren.

“Hurray for going to sea on a sewing-machine!” grunted Herc sardonically, as the business of casting off being over, the Dreadnought Boys were free for a few minutes.

“Say, Ned,” he remarked suddenly, after an interval spent in watching the busy shipping and the buildings along the shore, “I thought you said this boat could beat anything of her class afloat?”

“So she can—twenty-nine knots,” rejoined Ned, briefly and comprehensively.

“Hum! We’re crawling along like an old ferry boat.”

“Well,” laughed Ned, “it’s a good thing, too. If we made speed in this crowded river, we might run into something.”

“And sink them?”

“No, hardly. Torpedo-boat destroyers aren’t built for that kind of work. The skin of this craft isn’t much thicker than that of an orange.”

“Wow! Stop her!” exclaimed Herc.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve just remembered an important engagement ashore!”

“Too late now,” laughed Ned, as they steamed through Buttermilk Channel and headed down the bay toward the Narrows. Brooklyn Bridge lay behind them like a rainbow of steel.

“Say,” grunted Herc suddenly, as if the thought had just struck him, “it wouldn’t do for us to hit anything, would it?”

“Well, I should say not,” laughed Ned. “It would be like an inflated paper bag getting the impact of a good, healthy fist.

“Have you seen our quarters below?” inquired Ned, to change the subject.

“Have I? I should say so. Not much like the old Manhattan’s forecastle. There isn’t room to swing a cat without scraping its whiskers off.”

“No, in craft of this kind everything is sacrificed to engine space. Speed is the thing.”

“Well, I guess you’ll soon see some. Wait till we get out of the Ambrose Channel and turn our nose southward.”

“Can’t come too swift for me,” confidently asserted Herc.

The conversation of the two young men was interrupted at this moment by a boatswain’s mate. He ordered them forward to attend to some brasswork.

“Same old chores to be done even aboard a destroyer,” sighed Herc.

It may be said here that both Ned and Herc had practically received their rating as boatswain’s mates, but, owing to red tape, they had not received their appointments when the time came for sailing on the Beale. The destroyer carried a picked crew for the special service on which she was going, and Ned and Herc, to their huge delight, had been recommended by Captain Dunham for duty. Their present commander, Lieutenant Timmons, was the officer whom Ned had saved when the turret on the Manhattan was filled with the deadly gases and flames of the flare-back.

“Never mind,” Ned comforted, as the two boys went forward to get their rags and “brass dope,” “we’ll get our rating before this cruise is over.”

“Hooray! Then we’ll be giving orders, not taking them. Won’t I give some chaps I know a working-up,” grinned Herc.

“So far as obeying is concerned, the rear-admiral himself has to follow orders,” reminded Ned.

“Yes, but not so pesky many as we have to now,” Herc retorted.

The destroyer was soon well out into the heavy Atlantic swell. Dimly on the starboard hand could be seen the low-lying coast of New Jersey. During the afternoon the wind freshened, and the sun sank in a heavy bank of hard, greasy-looking clouds.

“Wind, sure as fate,” remarked a boatswain’s mate, as he gazed at them.

Before supper the men were given their watches, and other routine duty assigned. It was the first time that either of the boys had seen Lieutenant Timmons since Ned had so bravely rescued him. Naval etiquette, however, forbade his giving either of the boys more than a crisp nod and a short:

“Well, my lads,” as he made his first tour of inspection.

Ned and Herc were both on duty in the watch that came on after midnight. They turned in, therefore, with several of their mates shortly after the evening meal. Both slept soundly, being, by this time, too accustomed to the noises of a laboring ship to pay any attention to the uproar. They were awakened at eight bells, midnight, however, by the shrill cries of:

“Turn out there, the starboard watch! Come on, tumble out there!”

Both boys instantly perceived that they were, indeed, as Ned put it, on board a craft “as lively as a floating bottle.” The steel floor, shining dimly under the few incandescents burning in the forecastle, seemed inclined at all sorts of angles at once.

“Say, this thing is a sea broncho!” complained Herc, trying in vain to thrust a leg into his trousers. Every time he thought he had succeeded a fresh lurch would send him flying across the floor. Ned got on a little better, but both boys were black and blue in numerous places by the time they caught on to the fact that their more seasoned shipmates were bracing themselves against the upright metal posts from which the hammocks were slung.

As they hastily dressed the boys could hear, every now and then, a terrific crash like a heavy burst of thunder. It was the weight of some big wave smashing against the whale-back bow. At such moments the destroyer quivered from stem to stern like a nervous racehorse.

Emerging on deck the boys found that the motion had not belied the wildness of the night. One of those summer gales that spring up along the Atlantic coast was howling in all its fury. The seas were running in black mountains. It seemed as if their great jaws must engulf the slender, needle-like craft, which, instead of riding them, dived clean through most of them. This was owing to her high speed, which, though it had, of course, been moderated when the blow came on, was still very fast.

Lieutenant Timmons’ orders were to get to his station as fast as possible, and he was surely doing it.

“A good thing we’ve got on oilskins!” exclaimed Ned, clinging to the rail as the destroyer bucked and plunged, and water slushed and swished along her decks.

Soon after, the midshipman whose duty it was, came to where the watch was crouching in the protection of the wing of the superstructure, and, while a quartermaster held his lantern, read off the roll.

“Now, keep away from the rail, boys,” he warned, “it’s going to blow harder yet, and we don’t want any one overboard.”

“Overboard,” commented Herc, as the young officer hurried back to the small “bridge” on the conning tower and sought the shelter of a weather cloth, “well, I should say not. It’s wet enough here.”

“Bad business, any one going overboard to-night,” put in the man in charge of the watch, a weather-beaten boatswain’s mate named Stanley. “That dinky boat would stand a good chance of being smashed like an eggshell.”

“How about the illuminating buoy?” inquired Ned.

“Oh, that’s slung aft, with a hand watching it, of course. But even that wouldn’t be much use on such a night.”

Chatting thus, the shivering, wet watch managed to pass the time. At frequent intervals Ned peered into the inky blackness. Against the pitchy background he could see ragged clouds of lighter shade being ripped viciously past overhead by the gale.

“If this wind ever hit the farm, gran’pa wouldn’t have a roof over his head in the morning,” shouted Herc in his comrade’s ear.

Ned was about to reply in a similar vein when a sudden cry rang above the uproar of the laboring destroyer and the howling of the wind.

It was a shout that chilled the blood of every man in that group—the most terrible cry that can be heard at sea on such a night.

“Man overboard!”

---

“The life buoy!” came a sharp shout from the conning tower.

“Gone away, sir!” roared back the sailor whose duty it was to watch the contrivance.

Already, such was the speed of the destroyer, the blue flame of the chemical buoy showed some distance astern—now glimpsed on the top of a wave, now vanishing altogether.

But even as Ned’s heart, which had stilled for an instant—or so he imagined—at the shout of alarm, began to beat again, the speed diminished. Waves began to hammer viciously at the slowing craft. The midshipman on watch had set the telegraph to “full speed astern!”

The engine-room crew had instantly obeyed the order. Into the angry sea the slender, vibrating craft began to back at the full power of her propellers.

As she did so, the middy was already off the bridge and among the watch. Lieutenant Timmons had also appeared, oilskins hastily thrown over his pajamas. He had assumed command and was on the conning tower.

“Volunteers for the boat!” sang out the middy.

“How many, sir?” asked Stanley.

“Four. That’s enough. We don’t want to overcrowd her.”

“Then there’s four more here than you’ll want, sir,” rejoined Stanley, as the entire watch stepped forward.

The middy chose Herc and Ned and Stanley, and a man named Beesley. All were alert, strong and fearless, true types of Uncle Sam’s sailormen. In the meantime the boat had been unlashed and made ready for slinging. If it would have been dangerous to launch a boat on such a night from a battleship, how infinitely more so was it from the bounding, swaying deck of the destroyer! Never still for an instant, her military mast was cutting big arcs back and forth against the ragged sky.

But not one of those men hesitated a wink of an eyelid. Into the boat they piled, and the next instant the quadrant davits had dropped them overside into the turmoil!

A sharp “click” told that the falls had been automatically loosened.

“Stand by!” shouted the middy, who stood in the stern with the steering oar.

As he spoke, a mighty wave picked the boat up as if it had been a walnut shell and swept it dizzily away from the side of the destroyer. Off into the blackness it was carried before the oarsmen had time to stay it. The sharp command rang out again:

“Give way!”

Those four strong-backed, supple oarsmen bent to their sweeps as if they meant to split them. Far off, on their lee, they could see the bluish flame of the chemical buoy, now rising into view on the crest of a comber and now sinking out of sight in the dark trough of the turbulent seas. It was impossible to tell if there were a man clinging to it or not.

Bending forward, the middy scanned the wilderness of tumbling waters eagerly, while the oarsmen steadily struggled against the big seas down toward the lambent flame. Time and again it seemed as if one of the immense waves must crash down into the boat and overwhelm her. But the navy craft are built for just such work, and the boat kept comparatively dry amid the tempest.

“Hooray, boys!” came a sudden shout from the middy in the stern, “I see him!”

The temptation was strong upon the oarsmen to turn their heads and look, but they knew that such an action might result in the swamping of the boat, and kept steadily at their work.

All at once a blinding glare of light enveloped them, and then swept on. It was the destroyer’s searchlight.

“Woof!” exclaimed Herc, “I never knew those seas were so big till that light showed them up.”

Viewed in the bright electric bath of the searchlight, the waves did, indeed, look formidable. Black and huge, they reared up on every side of the tiny boat. Their tops were torn off by the furious wind in sheets of ragged foam. The spume thus formed drenched the boat in clouds.

Suddenly the middy at the stern oar swung the boat right around to port and, hauling his oar inboard, rapidly crawled forward.

“I see him, boys,” he shouted, grasping a line and leaning far out over the bow. “Stand by for orders.”

“Peak oars!”

Round came the boat’s head, the faces of its occupants now flooded with light from the destroyer’s searchlight.

“All right, my man, I’ve got you!” exclaimed the young officer, as he reached overboard for the patent buoy, to which hung a bedraggled, almost exhausted figure.

But at the same instant he uttered a shout of alarm, and before the horrified eyes of his startled crew he lost his balance and toppled over the bow into the raging sea.

“He’ll sink like a shot in those rubber boots!” yelled Stanley.

“Thank goodness, he kicked ’em off before he went forward,” cried Ned, who was at the stroke oar.

But even without the boots, the young officer was in dire peril. As he was swept past the buoy he made a frantic grab for it, but his fingers closed on the air. The contrivance, already burdened, was swept from his reach. Ned never forgot that face as the middy was carried by. In the glare of the searchlight every man in the boat could see his distressed features as plainly as if he had been performing on a lighted stage.

Suddenly Ned gave a shout. As a matter of fact, his outcry was simultaneous with the sweeping past the boat of the struggling young officer.

“You fellows keep her head to the seas!” he shouted above the voices of the gale.

“What are you going to do?” demanded Herc, as Ned rapidly threw off his oilskins and divested himself of his heavy boots. The young man-of-war’s man stood poised in the stern for an instant of time, and then, as a white face was borne by the boat once more, he plunged overboard, his body cleaving the waves as neatly as a torpedo.

So quickly had it all happened that hardly a man in the boat but Herc realized what the boy was going to do. Situated as they were, however, there was no time to indulge in speculation. Handling the boat took every ounce of energy and brain power they possessed. By a streak of luck, however, the boat had, during all the excitement, been allowed to drift to lee of the man clinging to the buoy. A wave literally smashed him against the side of the boat, the buoy fortunately striking first and taking off the force of the blow. In the flash of time accorded him, the fellow took advantage of his opportunity and clutched the gunwale. The next minute he was hauled aboard, dripping and almost gone. A more grateful man could not have been found in the universe.

In the meantime, all sight of Ned and the middy had been lost. Not a man aboard the boat had any idea of where to look for them in the wild tumult about them. They might be struggling for their lives at almost any point beyond the oarsmen’s ken.

The suspense was maddening to Herc. Strong swimmer as he knew Ned to be, it was doubtful if, with the added burden of the middy, the boy could battle for his life long.

Suddenly a cry came from Stanley, who was pulling the bow oar. The wandering searchlight had, for an instant, shone upon two white faces on the crest of a wave a short distance off. The man shouted his information, and the boat was at once headed in that direction. All this time water had been breaking into the little craft. There being no time to bail, she was soon in a very loggy condition. As the three oarsmen remaining in her strove, with every sinew in their bodies, to urge her forward, she rode half lifelessly on the tumbling waters.

“There they are!” yelled Herc suddenly.

As he shouted a big wave bore down toward them, carrying with it two figures. They were rushed by the boat in the dark swelter of waters. Stanley leaned over, at imminent risk of the craft’s broaching to, and seized one of them in a firm grasp. It was the limp, unconscious figure of the midshipman, who had been torn from Ned’s rescuing arms.

Stanley’s fingers had hardly closed on the middy’s collar before Herc reached over and grabbed his chum. He was just in time. Another instant and Ned, whose strength was fast deserting him after his struggle to rescue the middy, would have been borne far beyond hope of salvation.

But the simultaneous desertion of two oars, brief though it was, proved disastrous to the boat. As a big gray-back swept down upon it, the little craft broached to and filled with water to the gunwale.

“Overboard, everybody!” cried Stanley, setting the example and clinging to the edge of the boat, his body being over the side. With one arm he supported the rescued middy. The others followed his example. It was cruel work for Ned, and he was glad to feel Herc’s strong arm at his elbow as they clung to the helpless, water-logged boat.

“Say, looks like we’re goners!” exclaimed Herc, as he held tightly to Ned.

“If the Beale doesn’t hurry up, we are,” agreed Ned. “Wonder if they’ve seen our plight?”

“Not yet, but here comes the searchlight.”

As Herc spoke the bright rays enveloped them. They fancied they could hear a loud shout of consternation borne down on the wind toward them; for by this time the destroyer was well up to the weatherward of the half-sunk boat.

“Now, if they’ll only get us in their lee, they may get us out of this yet,” exclaimed Ned.

“And that’s what they are going to do,” cried Herc jubilantly, as the black form of the destroyer drew closer and closer. Her propellers were backing her slowly. Her commanding officer was allowing the wind to drift her down toward the submerged boat.

In this way it was hoped to form what sailors call a lee. That is, the big form of the destroyer would be interposed between the wind and the boat. In the comparative calm thus formed on her lee side, it was hoped that it would prove feasible to get the castaways on board.

But those minutes of waiting were among the most trying any of them had ever experienced. Time and again a monster wave would engulf the half-sunk boat, submerging the clinging crew altogether.

At last, just as Ned’s strength seemed to be giving out, he saw above him the black, glistening outline of the destroyer.

From somewhere far above him, as it seemed, a line came whistling through the air. Exerting his remaining strength, he caught it and made fast. He heard shouted commands above him and saw lights flitting hither and thither.

All at once both boat and destroyer seemed to be picked up together and hurled upward to the sky in a dizzy ascent. The next instant the downward drop started. Ned felt his senses leaving him. In the midst of a terrific crash, which he knew was the splintering of the helpless boat against the Beale’s steel sides, his senses went out.

---

“You’re wanted aft.”

The word came to Ned the next day as he lay, feeling rather dizzy and light-headed, in his hammock. There is no sick bay on a destroyer, and so special leave had been granted him to have his hammock slung during the daytime.

The Dreadnought Boy had been the only one of the boat’s crew injured in the onslaught of the mighty wave. Strong arms had pulled the rest to safety without injury. Ned, however, had been caught in the wreckage and badly bruised. As the parting of a light line released him from the tangle of the smashed boat, he had been flung head first against the Beale’s quarter.

“The commander added,—that is, if you feel well enough to come,” amended the messenger.

“Ask his indulgence for a few minutes till I get my sea legs, will you?” laughed Ned. “I feel mighty queer and shaky.”

At this moment Herc, who had been released from his duties on deck to see how his chum was faring, came below. With the red-headed lad’s assistance, Ned was soon ready for his visit aft. He found that the salty blast of fresh air which struck him in the face as he emerged from the crew’s quarters was as good as a tonic. The gale had blown itself out. Overhead was stretched a clean-swept, blue sky, while about them a bright sea, crested with sparkling whitecaps, raced along. Through it the Beale was plunging her way south at a good rate of speed, the black smoke pouring from her funnels and encrusting her after deck with a crunching carpet of cinders.

“Well, my lad, how are you feeling to-day?” asked Lieutenant Timmons, as Ned entered the cabin, cap in hand, and, after saluting, stood respectfully at attention.

Ned assured his superior that he was suffering no ill consequences. Whereupon Lieutenant Timmons called forward a young officer, whom Ned had not previously noticed.

“Here, Stark,” he said, “is the man you have to thank for your being here to-day.”

“And I do most heartily!” exclaimed the middy, stepping forward with outstretched hand. “I don’t know how to word it, Strong, but I hope you know how I feel.”

Ned nodded, rather embarrassed.

“That’s all right, sir,” he said. The boy had supposed that this concluded the interview, but in this he was mistaken. Fingering some papers which lay on his desk Lieutenant Timmons went on.

“I am especially glad that your officer and you have this bond between you, Strong, for this reason:—when we reach our destination,—which you may, or may not know?——”

Ned nodded to show that he was aware of the objective point of the voyage.

“When we reach Costaveza, I say, I have some special duty outlined, which I have already explained to Mr. Stark. He will command such men as he thinks he requires to assist him. I do not think, and he shares my opinion, that he could make a better choice than you and your companion, Hercules Taylor.”

“Of course, we’ll do our best, sir,” said Ned simply, though his heart was beating high at the distinction which his commander was conferring on the Dreadnought Boys.

“I know you will, Strong,” said his superior crisply, “and that is why I selected you for the duty. There is no need to explain it in its details, which will largely be governed by the conditions we may find existing in the republic. Of course, from reading the papers, you are familiar with the fact that there is a revolution there, which is antagonistic in the extreme to American interests.”

“Yes, sir,” rejoined Ned, debating within himself whether he would tell his commander about the dark-skinned man outside the navy yard. He finally decided not to, deeming it the wisest course not to speak on such an indefinite subject.

“Very well, Strong, you may go. You and Seaman Taylor will be notified when you are wanted.”

Ned clicked his heels together, placed his hand to his bandaged head, and left the cabin. As he walked forward the last vestige of his dizziness was gone. He felt capable of tackling a whole ship’s company single-handed. As soon as he found an opportunity he related what had passed in the commander’s cabin to his chum. Herc was as overjoyed as his companion at the opportunity that appeared to be held out to the Dreadnought Boys for distinguishing themselves.

“At this rate, we’ll be admirals before long,” chortled Herc.

“You’ll have to get some of those freckles off your face first, then, and——”

He broke off abruptly, as he suddenly became aware that their conversation must have been audible to a man who was reposing in the sun on the other side of the cowl ventilator, in the shelter of which they had been talking. It was the smoke hour after dinner, and many men were lolling about the decks, but neither of the boys had noticed this particular fellow.

“What did you stop so suddenly for?” began Herc, with a blank look, but Ned cut him short.

“Hush,” he whispered, “don’t say any more. After all, he may be asleep.”

“Well, what on earth——”

“Come on and take a turn, Herc.”

Ned forcibly raised his chum to his feet and walked forward with him. Then they turned aft once more. They chose the other side of the Beale, however, so as to get a good view of the figure that Ned had spied on the other side of the ventilator. But in the brief interval they had had their backs turned the man had gone.

“That confirms my suspicions,” said Ned.

“Suspicions of what?”

“That that fellow was there for no good purpose. He was crouching down to hear what we had to say. He must have come up softly after we were seated.”

“Well, he didn’t hear anything that was very important.”

“No,” admitted Ned, “unless——”

“Well, unless what? You’re the most suspicious chap I ever saw.”

“I was going to say that I am almost positive that that fellow was the fireman we noticed eying us so curiously the day we left the yard.”

“Even so. Aren’t you making a mountain out of a mole hill, or a battleship out of a dinghy?”

“I’m not so sure of that,” responded Ned slowly, and with an air of thoughtfulness, “something about that chap roused my suspicions that he was watching us for no good purpose.”

“Well, there wasn’t much nourishment in what we said, even if he is what you suspect him to be.”

“Humph! he heard that we are to be Midshipman Stark’s assistants in secret duty, didn’t he?”

“Well?”

“Well, it may be of the highest importance that no one should know that but ourselves and our officers. I’d like to kick myself overboard for not looking round before we started talking.”

At this moment Stanley, the man who had handled the bow oar in the boat the night before, came up to them. With him were the other volunteers of that heroic venture. In discussing the details of it and “fighting the battle o’er again,” the Dreadnought Boys speedily forgot the incident which had for an instant cast a cloud over Ned’s good humor.

Three more days of steady steaming brought the Beale within the tropics. It was delightful to the boys to be once more in Caribbean waters. The blue sea rippled by. Only a gentle swell made a pleasing contrast after the terrific “tumblefication” the Beale had been through on her way down the coast.

Awnings now made their appearance, and meals could be eaten without, as Herc expressed it, “hanging on with your toe nails.” White uniforms were the order of the day, and very natty the jackies and officers looked in their snowy regalia.

One morning, soon after they entered the “gulf-weed belt,” as sailormen call it, the crew was busy at brass work and in patching up the numerous small damages sustained by the destroyer in her rough experience off the American coast. The scene of activity was abruptly halted soon after five bells by a sudden cry of:

“Wreck ahead!”

The hail thrilled everybody. It meant a break in the monotony, and possible adventure.

“Where away?” was the hail from the small bridge forward of the conning tower, on which Ensign Conkling was on duty.

The next minute the officer’s glasses were eagerly scanning the glistening sea in the direction in which the lookout had indicated the wreck. A brief consultation followed. Ned, whose duty took him near the conning tower, heard Lieutenant Timmons remark to Ensign Conkling:

“She’s a distinct menace to navigation, and would be much better out of the way.”

“I agree with you, sir,” agreed the ensign. “Shall I change the course?”

“You had better do so, if you please. We are too far south for any of the regular derelict destroyers to happen along, so it becomes our duty to put her out of the way.”

The Beale’s course was changed. She was headed up toward the derelict, which speedily became visible to the naked eye as a low-lying hulk, with the stumps of three masts sticking up from her clean-swept decks. Few objects equal in melancholy suggestion a derelict met with in mid-ocean. The sight of a craft which once gallantly bore human beings, with their hopes and aspirations, now miserably tumbled about by every passing breeze or wave, invariably affects a sailor depressingly.

As the Beale drew closer there was not much conversation among the men. Such as there was, was carried on in low tones.

“She’ll have been a barque,” remarked Stanley, who was himself an old blue-water man, and who stood alongside the boys. “See those three stumps. An old-timer, too, judging by that deck house right aft of her foremast.”

The derelict was, indeed, a battered relic of the seas. Green weeds could be seen clinging thickly to her underhull as she dipped slowly and lazily on the swell. Ragged, bleached ends of ropes hung over her side like the rags on a beggar. It was evidently some time since she had been abandoned. So far as her timbers went, however, she was, to all seeming, still seaworthy, as her large amount of free-board showed.

“What are we going to do?” Herc asked curiously, as the Beale ranged up alongside at a distance of two hundred yards or so.

“I imagine that we are going to blow her up,” rejoined Ned.

“That’s it,” put in Stanley. “She’ll make a fine target, too.”

“As good a one as I did once,” grinned Herc, reminded of the occasion on which he had almost served as a human mark at target practice. Both boys laughed at the recollection.

“Come on, you Strong, and you Taylor and Stanley, I want you,” said a petty officer, coming forward. “The ensign is going to be put aboard that old craft to see if there’s anything on her of value before we blow her to Davy Jones.”

This task just suited the boys. The derelict had already excited their interest. To have a chance of setting foot on her was just what they desired. The other men watched them with envy, as one of the remaining boats carried by the Beale was launched, and the ensign took his place in the stern sheets.

As may be imagined, the oarsmen gave way with a will, and were soon at the side of the abandoned craft. To board her, however, they had to row round her stern, which was square and ugly, and bore on it in faded white letters the name Donna Mercedes.

“A dago, eh?” commented Stanley, in low tone, for he did not wish the officer to hear him talking, which would have been a breach of discipline.

“Ease all!” shouted the ensign at the same instant. He had sighted a place where the breaking away of the mast had smashed a bulwark, and at which it would be an easy matter to board the derelict.

“You men may come aboard if you want to,” he said, as he sprang nimbly upward on to the moldering deck. “Leave one of your number to guard the boat, though.”

“You fellows go,” said Stanley. “I’d rather sit here in the shade and have a smoke.”

Nothing loath, the Dreadnought Boys quickly followed the ensign, little dreaming what consequences their visit was to have for them in the immediate future.

---

The deck of the derelict presented as dismal a scene as had her hulk. The seams gaped whitely, and the litter of broken spars and mildewed canvas showed only too plainly through what an ordeal she had passed before being abandoned. Ensign Conkling lost no time in making his way down a companionway leading into what had been the captain’s quarters astern.

The two Dreadnought Boys, thus left to themselves, walked forward toward the deck-house. This erection, which had once been painted white, had been almost torn from the deck by the fury of the storm which had resulted in the casting away of the Donna Mercedes. Its doorway hung by one hinge, flapping to and fro in melancholy rhythm as the ship rolled to the swell.

“It’s a good while since any one made their way in here,” remarked Ned, as he plunged through the portal into the dark interior of the place.

The house had apparently been utilized as both a bunk house for the inferior officers of the Donna Mercedes and likewise as a kind of galley. Cooking utensils lay higgledy-piggledy about the rusty stove, and in the forepart of the deck-house were a few rude bunks. The tumbled state of the bedclothes, still lying in these, showed that the ship must have been abandoned in a hurry.

Suddenly something white stuffed into a crack near the ceiling of the place caught Ned’s eye.

“Papers!” he exclaimed. “Let’s have a look at them, Herc.”

“All right,” agreed Herc, bending over Ned’s shoulder as, having pulled the bundle from its place, the Dreadnought Boy moved toward the door and the light.

The papers which Ned found proved to be a mass of water-soaked writing in faded ink, consisting of two or three pages.

“Well, they are doubtless very interesting, but unfortunately for us we can’t read them,” exclaimed Ned, in a tone of disappointment, as the bright sunlight fell on the moldy writing.

“Why not?”

“Because it is written in Spanish. Hullo! here’s a signature. Well, we can make that out, anyway. Let’s see, Maritano de Guzman. And look here, Herc, here’s the remains of a seal.”

“Well, what are you going to do with them?” asked Herc curiously. To him the bundle was simply so much old junk. Ned, however, had a dash of the romantic mingled with his intensely practical qualities, and he thrust the papers into his blouse.

“I’ll give them to Lieutenant Timmons, I guess,” he said; “he may be able to understand what all the writing is about. I can’t, and am not going to try to.”

“Who do you suppose Maritano what-you-may-call-um was?” asked Herc.

“Haven’t the faintest idea,” laughed Ned lightly. “Some sea cook, I imagine, for he seemed to have his quarters in the galley.

“Well, come on; we’d better hurry aft. The ensign may want us,” reminded Ned, and hastily the two boys made their way sternward along the bleached decks. It was well they had hastened, for just as they reached the break in the deck marking the rise of the old-fashioned stern-cabin, they heard a voice hailing them. The tones floated up from below, through the broken glass panel of the cabin skylight.

“Herc, Strong and Taylor, come below here.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” cried Ned with alacrity. Followed by Herc, he bounded up the few steps to the raised deck above the cabin, and dived down the companionway.

They found the officer standing at the cabin table, which a shaft of sunlight, falling through the broken skylight, illuminated brightly. He was examining the contents of a stout wooden box, brass bound and about a foot square, which had evidently once contained the ship’s papers. The documents lay littered about the table, opened, as the officer had been examining them.

The boys waited for Ensign Conkling to speak.

“You had better put those papers back in the box, and I’ll take it aboard with me,” he said.

“Yes, sir——,” began Ned. He was just about to hand over the papers he found in the forward deck-house when there came a sudden sharp hail from outside.

“Aboard the Donna Mercedes!”

“Ay, ay!” shouted the ensign, who had recognized Stanley’s voice, “what is it?”

“A squall coming up from the southeast, sir!” came the reply.

“Come on, there, look lively, boys,” ordered the officer, and in the hurry of packing the documents back in the square box Ned, for the moment, quite forgot all about what he deemed were the unimportant papers in his blouse.

The light that had flooded the cabin table was suddenly blotted out before they finished. The officer, having rummaged the cabin thoroughly without finding anything more of interest, ordered a quick return to the boat. They gained it just as the tropical squall swept down on them.

“Shove off, quick!” came the command, as a rolling wall of white water rushed toward them.

Just in time the brown arms shoved off the ship’s boat. The next instant she was half buried in a flying smother of white spray, as the squall, in all its fury, struck them.

“Toot! toot! toot!”

It was the siren of the Beale blowing a recall.

“About time,” muttered Ensign Conkling grimly, as the men rowed with all their might to keep from being dashed against the hulk. “If we’d been a few minutes later we’d have lost the boat.”

The wind fairly screamed about the boat, and the rain beat with furious force in their faces, as they pulled through the squall for the distant hull of the destroyer. Before they were half way there, however, the sun was brightly shining again, making their soaked garments steam as they labored. With such fury and suddenness do tropic squalls descend and vanish. But as the men raised their eyes and looked at the sparkling sea, darkened to the northwest, where the just departed squall was hastening onward, an exclamation of surprise burst from the lips of every occupant of the boat.

Not a trace of the derelict was to be seen! She had vanished as utterly as a figure on a slate obliterated by the passing of a wet sponge. The squall had wiped out the Donna Mercedes and sent the poor battered wanderer to the bottom of the sea.

Of course, an officer being on board the boat, the men made no comment at the time, but many were the speculations indulged in during the noon smoke hour concerning the old derelict. The old sailors on board were inclined to think that, weakened as she was by long drifting, her half-opened seams had admitted a great flood of water when the squall struck, causing her instantly to founder.

Although not officially transmitted, the “wireless telegraphy” which begins at the commander’s orderly and ends in the forecastle of all naval ships soon transmitted details of what Ensign Conkling had discovered on board the Donna Mercedes. She had been a chartered vessel, owned by a merchant of Costaveza, the very place for which they were bound. Laden with dye woods and hides, she had set out for a northern port some months before. A hasty note scribbled on the captain’s papers, in his own hand apparently, stated that after battling with a gale for three days the Donna Mercedes had begun to sink, and had been abandoned in a hurry. The name of Senor de Guzman appeared as a passenger.

“They must have quit her in a hurry if the captain left his papers,” was Stanley’s comment. “A skipper would almost rather leave his head than leave those behind.”

“I wonder what became of those on board her,” said Ned musingly, his mind busy with thoughts of the fate of that unhappy ship’s company.

“That’s a question,” rejoined Stanley, expelling a great cloud of blue smoke. “They may have been picked up, and again they may not.”

“And if not?”

“Well, in that case it ain’t hard to guess that they drifted around till they died. That’s all that castaways in the tropics can do,” grunted Stanley.

“Unless they made land,” supplemented Ned.

“As I understand it, the captain wrote down his latitude and longitude as near as he could figure it out when they abandoned ship,” said Stanley. “The figures show him to have been blown most 1,000 miles off his course.”

“But how did the ship get back near to the coast again?” inquired Herc.

“The set of the Gulf Stream, I reckon, or maybe some of those mysterious currents that nobody knows much about. Derelicts have a queer habit of bobbing up where no one expects them.”

The morning after this conversation the Beale steamed slowly between two high headlands of rock, clothed with palms and other tropical growth, and after proceeding some distance into the basin formed by the two “horns” of the harbor came to an anchorage. Immediately the Stars and Stripes went up at her blunt stern, and men were set to work rigging the starboard gangway.

“Doesn’t look much as if there was a revolution going on ashore there, does it?” asked Stanley, who had joined the boys as they stood leaning over the starboard rail forward, gazing at the scene that unfolded itself before them. It was a gorgeous panorama of color and light.

In the foreground was the harbor, almost landlocked at its entrance by two projections of rocky cliff. Across the glassy water, dotted with small native craft, with here and there a coasting steamer lying at anchor, was the town—a mere huddle of red roofs and white walls, as seen from the Beale’s decks. Behind the town came a belt of vivid greenery, and beyond that shot up like a huge rampart a wall of blue mountains, with sharply serrated skyline and densely wooded sides, covered, seemingly, to their summits.

“It’s like a scene in a theater,” said Herc admiringly. And so it was.

Lieutenant Timmons, with sword and cocked hat, and accompanied by his officers, all in full dress uniforms, shortly emerged from his cabin. His boat, of which Herc and Ned formed part of the crew, was called away at once.

“You’ll have a good chance for a run ashore,” whispered Stanley, as they briskly came alongside the starboard gangway and the officers stepped on board. Ned and Herc already knew that the Lieutenant’s destination was the American consulate.

The row ashore occupied but a brief space of time. The eight men composing the crew had never rowed with greater vigor. Somehow the sight of land close at hand seems to endow Jack with wonderful muscles and energy. Soon they were at a landing, on which several inquisitive townsfolk and barefooted loungers, with yellow cigarettes between their fingers, were assembled.

“The men can take a run ashore for two hours, Stanley,” said Lieutenant Timmons, as he left the boat and, followed by his little escort, made his way up a narrow, dark street. In front of one balconied building on this thoroughfare the American flag was floating, denoting that there was the American consulate.

As may be imagined, the jackies lost no time in mooring the boat. Lots were then quickly drawn to see who should remain on watch in it. The lot fell to a young sailor named Diamond. With eager looks about them the others quickly made off, leaving Ned, Herc and Stanley standing alone. The loungers swarmed about them. Some were begging, others had small articles of native manufacture to sell. It took some minutes to shake them off, and then the three sailormen headed up a tree-bordered street which seemed to lead toward the outskirts of the town.

Some moments of brisk uphill walking brought them to a pretty red-tiled house, in front of which, under spreading tropical vegetation, several small vine-covered booths were scattered about. A sign in front proclaimed that American soda was for sale there.

“Say, I’m as thirsty as a limekiln!” exclaimed Herc, as his eyes fell on the sign. “What do you fellows say to sampling some of that?”

He pointed to the sign.

All agreed it would be a good idea, and soon they were seated in a small booth awaiting the arrival of a waiter.

“Queer they should have soda down here,” commented Herc, gazing approvingly about at the snug nest of greenery, through which a pleasant breeze from the blue bay beneath swept refreshingly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” rejoined Stanley, “these dagoes have taken to soda amazingly since they first tasted it on American steamers. Besides, you know, the mail boats bring tourists down here in the winter.”

At this point the conversation of the trio was interrupted by the arrival of a stout, black-mustached man in a white duck suit, wearing a big panama hat and carrying a palm-leaf fan.

“How do you do?” he exclaimed in excellent English, though he was palpably a native.

The boys responded in kind, and then, to their amazement, the aristocratic newcomer inquired what it would be their pleasure to drink.

Their astonishment must have reflected itself on their faces, for, with a light laugh, the white-ducked individual burst forth with explanations. On account of the revolution his waiters had all left—been impressed into the army, he explained, so he had to do the waiting himself. Anyhow, it was the off season, so he did not so much mind. Where were the revolutionists? Oh, quien sabe? Over in the mountains somewhere. The mountains acted as a natural barrier to Boca del Sierras, he was happy to say, and so long as the brave government troops could keep the insurgents on the other side of the range all would be well.

Having taken the orders, he hurried away. While he was gone the boys’ talk reverted to various topics, when suddenly Herc, who had been gazing at the harbor below them, exclaimed:

“Why, this is the place the Donna Mercedes sailed from.”

“So it is,” responded Ned, “and, by the way, that reminds me, Stanley, that I promised to show you those papers before I handed them over to Lieutenant Timmons.”

“Good gracious! haven’t you done that yet?” demanded Herc.

“Haven’t had an opportunity to,” rejoined Ned. “Unfortunately, in the service you can’t walk up to an officer and say, ‘I’d like a word with you.’”

“Like our friend in Brooklyn,” grinned Herc, recalling the dark-skinned man, Senor Charbonde.

“Exactly,” laughed Ned. The lad dived into his blouse for the papers from the Donna Mercedes. Since that night in the boat, when for a time it seemed that they were all doomed, the boys had struck up a great friendship with Stanley, who was an older man than either of them, and had seen many years of service in the navy. Like many another man of superior intelligence and character, he had had no opportunity to rise, either through lack of interest or ill luck, and was still a boatswain’s mate. Of his former life the boys knew little. But with the readiness of youth to form warm friendships, they had struck up one with this man and had already told him of their discovery on board the Donna Mercedes. Not till that moment, however, had an opportunity presented itself to consult him about the papers. As Stanley knew Spanish pretty fluently both boys felt that he would be an invaluable aid in revealing to them what secret—if any—the papers held.

Just as Stanley laid his big, brown paw on the bundle of faded documents the polite waiter pro tem. of the Villa Espenza appeared, carrying the soda on a silver tray. He set it down with a bow and flourish, and accepted payment with an indifferent air. His sharp, dark eyes, however, in the roaming glance they had taken over the table, had noted the papers which Stanley had just appropriated. An expression of deep interest, which, however, he succeeded in masking from the boys, came into his face as he did so. Clearly the unctuous proprietor of the Villa Espenza was in deep thought as, with another bow and flourish, he moved away.

---

But of their host’s interest in the papers the little group had no inkling. They contentedly sipped their sodas—which, to tell the truth, despite their provider’s recommendation, were rather warm—and watched Stanley furrowing his weather-beaten brow over the documents.

“Well,” said Ned at last, “what do you make of them?”

“Hold on a minute,” cried Stanley excitedly. Evidently he had stumbled across something that made the papers of strange interest to him.

“Why,” he shouted with a slap of his knees the next minute, “it looks like we’ve stumbled on somebody’s treasure trove.”

“What?”

“That’s what I said. This paper here, so far as I can make out, is the last will and testament of this old chap, de Guzman, who signs it. It wills all his fortune, real and personal, and that seems to be pretty big, to a Senorita Isabelle de Guzman.”

“Guzman!” exclaimed Ned, “seems to me I’ve heard that name a lot lately.”

“Why, yes,” put in Herc, “it’s the name of the leader of the revolutionists. They say he’s the worst enemy Americans down here have.”

“Hum,” pondered Ned, “maybe this girl is some relation.”

“Maybe; there’s a good catch for you, Ned,” laughed Stanley, “for this will disposes of an estate worth almost a million, and that’s a lot of money down here.”

“Or any other place,” grinned Herc, clinking what remained of his last month’s pay.

“Well, what are we going to do about it?” inquired Ned.

“Just hang on to it for a while,” counseled Stanley, handing back the paper. “I’d advise you to consult with Lieutenant Timmons or the American consul, and then we can learn better what to do about it. After all, the Guzman named here may be down in the Argentine for all we know. It’s a common enough name in South America.”

“That’s so,” agreed Ned, “but the ship hailed from this port, or so her papers said.”

“That’s right,” agreed Stanley, “but what was old de Guzman, supposing he is, or was, worth a million, doing in her galley?”

“That’s a poser,” cried Herc.

“It’s like a scattered Chinese puzzle,” muttered Ned. “I wonder if we shall ever be able to put it together. Hello!”

He started to his feet suddenly and ran rapidly round the table to the other side of the arbor.

“What are you doing—chasing yourself round the block for exercise?” demanded the astonished Herc.

“No, but I’m almost certain that I saw some one dodge behind those palms yonder as I jumped up. Just before that I heard a rustling in the creepers behind you.”

“Somebody rubbering?”

“That’s what it looked like. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“I do,” put in Stanley, rubbing his grizzled chin.

“What, then?”

“That was a mighty interesting conversation we were just having.”

“To whom but ourselves?”

“To any one named Guzman, or kin to the Guzmans,” pronounced Stanley gravely.

“By hookey, you’re right! Who do you think it could have been?”

“I haven’t got any idea. Maybe our friend, the handsome waiter,” suggested Herc.

“I wonder,” mused Ned, but at that instant, as if to contradict his thoughts, the proprietor of the Villa Espenza appeared from quite another direction, balancing his tray gracefully and humming a song.

“Is there any one but ourselves here to-day?” inquired Ned, as he came up.

“Alas! no,” was the reply, “business is very bad. You are the only customers we have had for some days. The revolution has put business—what you Americans call ‘to the bad.’”

After ordering and drinking more sodas the boys and their older companion rose and, bidding farewell to the bowing proprietor and promising to call again, started for the ship.

“Say, that fellow reminds me of somebody, and I can’t think who,” said Ned, as they set off down the hillside.

“Same here,” murmured Herc. “I have it!” he exclaimed suddenly, “that chap in Brooklyn—the fellow who wanted to know what was going on on board the Beale.”

“Oh, that dago,” grunted Stanley, who was acquainted with the incident, which the boys had related to him. “Somehow I’ve got an idea you’ll hear more of that chap.”

“I hope not,” responded Ned. “I wouldn’t pick him out for a constant companion.”

On their way through the water-front portion of the town the three passed a small shop in which post-cards were displayed for sale.

“Let’s go in and get some,” suggested Ned.

“All right,” laughed Herc, “I see your money’s burning a hole in your pocket.”

“Well, it’s only the interest on what we’ve got in the navy bank at four per cent.,” Ned reminded him.

They all bought several post-cards, and were leaving the store when Herc’s eye was attracted by something. It was a picture post-card, adorned by a colored view of the Villa Espenza, the place they had just left.

“Might as well take that, too,” said Herc, taking it from the rack. “Zan-go!” he cried suddenly, “look here—no, here down in this corner—what does that printing say?”

“‘The Villa Espenza, Bernardo Guzman, Proprietor,’” read Ned. “Wow!”

“And he overheard that whole talk of ours, I’ll bet a lemon!” cried Herc.

“Right you are,” responded Stanley gloomily. “And his name’s Guzman—no wonder he was interested.”

To avoid attracting attention from the owner of the store, who was gazing curiously at them, the boys bought the post-card and left the place.

“See the way that fellow in there was glaring at us?” grinned Herc. “They sure do love Americans down here—not!”

“That’s a good way to tell a revolutionary sympathizer,” said Stanley. “The government party are all friendly to Americans. They realize the good they have done the country and the capital they have brought into it. The revolutionists, on the other hand, all want to see all foreigners out of here, and be able to run the place for themselves—and their pockets.”

“I don’t see why our government should interfere,” said Herc, as they made their way down the street, pursued sometimes by approving and sometimes by unfriendly glances.

“She’s not interfering,” rejoined Stanley; “that’s just it. If she could she’d mighty soon show these revolutionists where they stand. Not that the United States doesn’t believe in every one having a square deal, mind you, but at Washington they think these things should be decided by the ballot box, and not by fighting and squabbling.”

By this time they had drawn near the wharf, had turned and were headed for it, when a sudden chorus of shouts and yells rapidly drawing nearer attracted their attention. At the same instant round the corner of one of the dark, narrow streets leading to the water front burst a strange group—or rather, from their exciting actions and cries, mob would be a better term.

“Hullo!” shouted Ned suddenly, “there’s some of our fellows among them.”

“By the great turret gun, so there are!” echoed Stanley, starting forward.

In the midst of a howling, yelling crowd of townsmen there had suddenly flashed into view for an instant the white uniform of a man-of-war’s man. Evidently he was having a desperate fight against heavy odds. As the Dreadnought Boys and Stanley rushed toward the scene of action, they could see stones and filth, both of which were plentiful in the streets, flying from all directions at the Yankee sailor.

“It’s Gifford!” shouted Herc, recognizing the centre of the group, who, though putting up a plucky fight, was overwhelmingly outnumbered.

“Hey! Gifford, stick it out. Beales to the rescue!” yelled Ned, carried away by indignation and forgetting that it would have been better judgment to try diplomatic methods first.

Echoing the cry, his two companions followed him in a furious dash into the crowd. Before the jackies’ sturdy arms the South Americans fell right and left like ninepins; but they, taken by surprise though they were, soon recovered their wits, and a hail of stones poured in on the boys and Gifford, to whose side they had fought their way.

“Quick, Gifford, get your back against the wall. We don’t want them attacking us from behind!” exclaimed Ned.

As the four sailors braced their backs against the corner building and stood, with flashing eyes, waiting the fresh onslaught of the Costavezans, a stone whizzed through the air.

Crack!

Before Ned had time to dodge it, the missile grazed his cheek. It fortunately only bruised the skin, but it set the blood to flowing. In a second, as if it had been a signal to the mob, the air became full of rocks. The Americans had to hold their arms over their heads to prevent being seriously injured.

“Come on!” exclaimed Ned, as the mob paused for a second for fresh ammunition, “a charge is the only thing for it.”

“When I say,—go,” seconded Stanley.

Suddenly, just as a squat little Costavezan, with a gayly colored serape wrapped round his dirty white clothes, raised an arm to hurl another stone, the word came.

“Charge!”

If an earthquake had suddenly struck that crowd, they could not have scattered more precipitately. Before the onrush of the Americans they parted like a flock of sheep when an angry collie runs through them. With shrieks and yells and imprecations, they fled right and left, many of them bearing what would later become very promising black eyes.

All at once, just in front of Ned, there came a flash. He realized instantly what it was—a knife! With a rapid up-sweep of his elbow, more instinctive than anything else, he met the descending arm of the man who wielded it.

As the two arms clashed together the knife went flying out of its owner’s hand and fell with a steely ring at the other side of the street. As it did so the Dreadnought Boy’s fist shot out and collided with the Costavezan’s face with a “squdgy” sound. The fellow was lifted clean off his feet by the blow, and came down to the ground after twirling once round completely. As he fell he collapsed in a senseless heap.

“A sleep punch!” shouted Gifford, whose face was cut in a dozen places.

What the mob in its fury might next have attempted will never be known, for at that moment Gifford’s friends, who had become separated from him before the row started, hove in sight. With a shout they charged, as had the boys just before, at the sight of the white uniforms in the midst of a hostile crowd. It was the end. With shouts of hate and fury, but prudently taking to their heels nevertheless, the mob scattered.

“How did it all happen?” asked Ned, as Gifford began mopping his face. Of the mob only a few curious small boys remained.

“Why, I saw a fellow pulling down an American flag from a small photo gallery up the street,” said Gifford, “and I just naturally waded in.”

“And——” said Ned, a smile hovering about his lips.

“Told him not to.”

“What happened then?”

“Why, then the nasty dago spat at me. I punched him, and before I knew it the whole mob was around me. I didn’t mind the stones so much, but, oh! those rotten bananas and those ancient eggs—phew!”

“Well, it’s a good thing no bones are broken,” said Ned. “Come on, let’s get down to the boat before those fellows gather again. You want to get cleaned up.”

“You haven’t much on you,” grinned Gifford, looking at Ned’s face, blood-stained, where the stone had struck him.

Ned burst into a laugh.

“I guess not. Say, fellows, we’d better not say anything to the lieutenant about this. He might think we’d been rioting or something.”

“I guess you’re right,” agreed Stanley, “but in that case we want to look all right when he shows up.”

With his handkerchief dipped in sea-water Ned soon removed the dirt and grime from his face, as did the others. When the lieutenant, therefore, came down to the boat, he found a demure-looking crew seated, ready to put the oars over at the word of command. Perhaps he may have noticed one or two angry-looking bruises on the men’s faces, but naval officers learn not to see a great deal—sometimes.

“The feeling in the town is distinctly anti-American, the consul tells me,” Ned, who pulled stroke, heard Lieutenant Timmons remark to Ensign Conkling, as they gave way.

“But about the revolutionists’ arms, sir?”

“That’s the mystery. They are getting them somehow, and plenty of them. I wish we could solve it.”

“So do I,” thought Ned to himself, as he bent to his oar. He resolved as he tugged away that if he got the chance, the delivery of the munitions of war to the enemies of his country would cease abruptly.

---

However, to the disappointment of both Dreadnought Boys, the Beale weighed anchor that evening and stood off down the coast to another port—Hermillo. There were several American mining interests in this neighborhood, but, so far they had not been jeopardized by the revolutionists, who were busy to the northward, concentrating that branch of their army for an attack on Boca del Sierras itself. If they could gain this important base, they would have control of the principal seaport of Costaveza, and be in a position to dictate terms. However, from the information he had gained from the consul, Lieutenant Timmons had decided that there was no immediate danger of an attack on the city. So, in pursuance with his orders, he decided to steam down the coast and ascertain the condition of affairs farther south.

For three or four days the destroyer dawdled about in the port of Hermillo, the lieutenant being in constant communication by wire with Boca del Sierras. He and his officers were constantly ashore, and the boys, who were eager for the promised action, which they felt sure would come when they were detailed to shore duty, almost wore themselves out with impatience. At last, however, one bright evening the command to weigh anchor came, and the Beale once more moved northward. As she left Hermillo a low vessel of war, not unlike herself, came steaming in just as the Beale drew out of the roadstead.

“Hello, another destroyer!” exclaimed Ned, as his eyes fell on the newcomer.

“Yes, I guess it’s the General Barrill,” said Stanley, who, as usual, was beside the boys. “She’s a destroyer the Costavezan government bought from the Argentine just before the revolution broke out.”

“If she had four stacks instead of three, she could easily be mistaken for us!” exclaimed Ned.

“That’s a fact,” agreed Stanley. “She’s exactly the same type.”

“What’s that flag she’s flying?” asked Ned, as the vessel’s ensign dipped in response to the Beale’s courtesy.

“Red, white and blue, with a gold star in the middle. That’s the flag of the Costavezan republic,” remarked Stanley, gazing at the destroyer as she came to an anchorage.

“She ought to be capable of putting the rebels out of business,” observed Herc.

“Don’t be so sure of that,” put in a sailor who had joined the group. “The revolutionists have got a few boats of their own. When I was ashore I heard that the northern section of their forces had seized the rest of the government’s navy, and that they had ’em waiting some place up the coast ready for action.”

“Wonder what the General Barrill is doing in here?” inquired Ned.

“Put in to coal, most likely. They’ll need her up north if those revolutionists attack Boca del Sierras. A few shells from those guns of hers would do a lot of damage.”

“But how about the revolutionists’ fleet?”

“Mostly old tubs, converted yachts and the like, with rapid-fire guns and maybe a few six-inchers mounted on ’em,” said the sailor, who had sauntered up. “A modern destroyer like the Barrill, if she was handled properly, could do a lot of damage to ’em—send ’em to the junk pile, in fact.”

The next morning the Beale steamed up to her old anchorage in the harbor of Boca del Sierras. But, while they had been gone, another occupant had been added to the shipping of the harbor—the American mail steamer. How good it looked to see Old Glory flying bravely at her stern. But they were not to have the company of the mail steamer for long.

About an hour after they anchored, she blew a long blast of her whistle and, dipping her flag in sea courtesy to the hornet-like destroyer, she steamed majestically out between the two capes on her way south. Shortly afterward the lieutenant’s boat was called away, and he was rowed ashore to communicate with the consul and also receive dispatches, which he expected would have been forwarded by the mail boat, which left New York one day later than the Beale. As before, the men were informed that they could stretch their legs ashore while waiting the return of their officers, and Ned and Herc were once more among the lucky ones.

As the officers’ visit was likely to be but a short one, however, there was no opportunity this time for a run into the country, so, accompanied by Stanley, they strolled about the docks. On one wharf there was a scene of great activity going forward. From the mail steamer there had been landed a number of boxes, on which were stenciled in big letters, “Agricultural Machinery.” That they were of great weight was evidenced by the fact that the men who were working to get them into a small launch by means of an old hand crane seemed to find the task about equal to their strength.

“That rope’s going to part before long,” grunted Stanley, gazing at the aged cable of the hand crane, which was raveled and did not look capable of handling weights of the ponderous character of the boxes.

A box was poised in mid-air ready for swinging over above the launch as he spoke.

Suddenly there was a sharp crack and a cry of alarm from the workmen.

“Ah, ah! I thought so!” exclaimed Stanley. “There she goes!”

The accident he had anticipated had occurred. The rope had snapped under the strain, and the box which was being hoisted had crashed down on the stringpiece of the dock. For an instant it balanced as if it meant to topple over into the launch below, but finally it settled back and fell with a heavy thud on the floor of the wharf.

As it did so one of the end boards flew off under the strain, and the receptacle gaped open.

By this time the group from the Beale were quite close by, and Ned’s sharp eyes fell on some shiny metal apparatus inside the case. Stanley saw it at the same instant, and so did Herc.

“Those fellows will be giving their agricultural machinery to the mermaids to cultivate seaweed with the first thing they know,” grinned Herc.

“Agricultural machinery nothing!” snapped Stanley sharply. “Do you know what’s in that box, boys?”

“What it says, I suppose,” rejoined Ned.

“Not much. That box there and those others as well, I’ll bet, are full of machine guns!” was the startling reply.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve seen too many for my eyesight to fool me. I’d know any part of one a mile off, even if I only spied it through a busted box.”

As the boys’ elder spoke, a man who had been down in the launch superintending the stowage of the boxes, clambered up over the stringpiece. Angry words were on his lips, but as his eyes fell on the boys they quickly died away, and, without uttering a sound, he sank back again.

Had the boys, in their interested scrutiny of the boxes, been able to spare a moment to observe the man who had, in such jack-in-the-box fashion appeared and disappeared, they would have been strongly interested, for the fellow was Jules Charbonde, late of New York, but who had arrived that morning on the mail boat together with the “agricultural machinery for his rancho in the hills.”

“Lie low!” he exclaimed to a companion who shared the close quarters of the launch with him, “they’re up there.”

“They—who?” inquired a harsh voice, whose owner was about to raise himself up and peer over the edge of the wharf, when he was violently pulled back by Charbonde.

“You idiot!” exclaimed the South American, “now that everything is settled, the custom-house inspectors bribed, and the stevedores muzzled by gold, would you go and spoil it all?”

“No harm in taking a peek is there?” growled Hank Harkins, for he was Charbonde’s companion. He had traveled down as the other’s valet, a role which he by no means liked filling, but the pay Charbonde gave appealed to him, and, of course, so far as actual valet work was concerned, Hank was only required to assume the role without the duties. Charbonde’s acute mind had realized that having a former American sailor in his pay might come in handy. Senor Charbonde was not a man to overlook any detail, and he had, therefore, retained Hank.

“Yes, there is every harm in taking a peek, as you call it,” raged Charbonde. “It might spoil everything if they were to see you.”

Hank grumbled, but said nothing. Presently Charbonde addressed him once more while the stevedores above got ready a new rope.

“You have arranged everything for communication with the Beale?”

“Yes, a fishing boat will put off this evening, and the man who sails her will bring back a note.”

“Good! You did not waste your time in Brooklyn.”

“I should say not! I’ve got a first-class man for us, too. He’ll stick at nothing to get money. You see, he needs it badly.”

“Better and better,” said Charbonde, rubbing his hands. “I see you have ability.”

“You bet I have,” rejoined Hank modestly. “All I need is a chance to bring it out.”

“Well, that you shall soon have, depend upon it. When we are in power in Costaveza and my cousin, Truxillo de Guzman is dictator, we shall receive our reward.”

While this interesting conversation had been going forward in the launch—the talkers taking good care to keep themselves out of sight under the small roof at the stern of the craft—the boys and Stanley, greatly excited at their discovery, had returned to the boat, impatiently to await the return of Lieutenant Timmons. It had been agreed that it was high time to acquaint him with what they had found out.

There was not a question in their minds but that the arms were intended for the revolutionists, and that some dishonest custom-house official had been bribed to let them into the country.

The officers returned before long, and Ned noticed that Lieutenant Timmons’ brow was clouded, and he looked troubled. He had good reason to. The consul had informed him that the revolutionists had attacked and burned property in the hills back of the town, and in an engagement to the north had routed the government troops. Their next move, he was sure, would be to concentrate and march on the city itself. Already their advance guard was in the hills, only repelled from making an immediate attack by the present strength of the government troops quartered in the city and its environs.

The news from the north had, for the time being, been kept a secret for fear of its moral effect on the citizens and the so far loyal army. It had had a distinctly disheartening effect on the government and on the American interests, however. Lieutenant Timmons had been ordered by the department in Washington to use “extreme discretion.”

“Hum, discretion! I’d like to use a few six-inch shells,” thought the young officer.

As the side of the Beale was reached, and the officers disembarked, Ned touched Lieutenant Timmons’ elbow.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, in a low voice, “but could you send for me in a short time?”

“Why, certainly, Strong,” said the lieutenant, looking astonished at this extraordinary request, “but——”

“I think I can tell you where the rebels are getting their arms, sir,” remarked Ned quietly, touching his cap and sinking back to his oars.

Lieutenant Timmons was, like all navy men, trained to repress all show of emotion under any circumstance. Now, however, his eyebrows raised involuntarily, and he gave a surprised whistle. Aloud he said, in a dry, ordinary tone:

“Very well, Strong, I will have it attended to.”

---

“You are sure of this, then?”

The voice of Lieutenant Timmons held a tone of deep interest as he gazed at the three blue-jackets standing bareheaded before him in his cabin. At Ned’s request Stanley and Herc Taylor had been included in the summons aft.

“Absolutely, sir,” came Stanley’s deep voice. “I’d know the butt of a Crag-Allen machine gun a block away, sir, and then the weight of those cases——”

“I think there is little doubt that you have stumbled upon the solution of the problem. The thing is to head them off. Have you any suggestions, Mr. Stark?”

The officer turned to the young midshipman, the same whom Ned had saved on the night the man was washed overboard.

“Why, sir, Stanley and his shipmates have acted so cleverly in this that it might be well to hear if they have anything to say,” he rejoined.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Stanley, thus encouraged, “but I think that it’s evident they mean to wait till dark and then take the guns down the coast somewhere.”

“By George! I believe you are right,” burst out Lieutenant Timmons. “Most probably they are destined for the northern army of the revolutionists, which, I hear, is marching down the coast to join the main column. They gave the government troops an almighty licking, I understand, and it is doubtful if the latter can rally in time to join with the defending forces at Boca del Sierras.”

“But if they can, sir?” inquired the midshipman.

“In that case the government troops might be strong enough to defend the place. Otherwise, that is, if a junction between the two bodies cannot be effected, the revolutionists bid fair to sweep all before them. But go on, Stanley. What were you about to suggest?”

“I thought, sir, if we could take the gas launch and make after them quiet like, we might find out where the arms were landed, or at least head ’em off.”

“A good plan, my man, but suppose they have several armed men on board? You know, in the delicate situation the United States occupies in this matter, we cannot afford to risk a fight.”

“No, sir,” broke in Ned, “but supposing we borrowed the consul’s launch. That wouldn’t be identified with the Beale, and we could head them off, perhaps, without any one being the wiser as to who it was.”

“The very thing,” heartily agreed Lieutenant Timmons, “only mind you, no adventures like those you had in Cuba.”

“Oh, no, sir,” laughed Ned, flushing up.

“Very well, then, that will do. You may go forward, and be subject to call. I will see to it that the launch is here—at about dusk, eh, Stark?”

“Yes, sir, I think that would be the best time,” rejoined the middy.

“Well, you are to be in command of the expedition——”

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Stark, blushing under the honor. “Thank you, sir,” he broke out.

“Don’t thank me, Stark. After all, it’s more hard work than honor, for it cannot be mentioned in the dispatches. I shall rely on you, however, to bring back the information we require as to the destination of the arms, and if you can do it without detection the arms themselves. Will you require any more men than Strong, Taylor and Stanley?”

“No, sir, the fewer the better, but we ought to have some one to handle the engine.”

“That’s right. I will get the engineer to detail a man to look after that.”

How that afternoon passed the boys could never tell. If ever hours were leaden-footed, those were. The consul’s launch came off during the afternoon, but immediately returned. During the time the diplomat had been on board, however, the plan had been explained to him, and he had enthusiastically placed his craft at the disposal of the Beale’s commander.

It grew toward dusk at last, however, and the boys ceased their impatient pacing of their cramped quarters. As for Stanley, he was as cool as the proverbial cucumber. Like several of the other men, he had borrowed a fish-line and was bobbing for red snappers most of the afternoon. Quite a number of lines were cast overboard from the Beale, and, though it cannot be said that much fish was caught, a wonderful amount of patience was displayed, so a good end was served after all.

The sun was disappearing behind the high mountains, beyond which a part of the insurgent forces were supposedly encamped, when Ned, who was standing forward gazing at the sunset, gave an exclamation.

“There’s a picture!” he said.

Tacking rapidly toward them across the glowing water was a small fishing craft. She moved swiftly as the evening breeze filled her single leg-o’-mutton sail.

“She’s coming out to us,” cried Herc suddenly.

Indeed, it looked like it, and presently it was seen that Herc was right. The little craft drew almost alongside the grim-looking destroyer before the figure at her helm hauled his sheet and put her about. As she shot away on the other tack there was a sudden splash from the Beale’s side, and a man went floundering into the water.

“Man overboard!” went up a cry, but it was instantly stilled, as it was seen that whoever it was in the water he was in no need of assistance. He could swim like a fish. A few strokes brought him once more to the side of the Beale, and he was helped up. He stood laughing and shaking himself on the deck a minute later, and the boys, who were in the crowd that gathered about him, heard the word passed among the crew.

“It’s Jim Prentice, one of the engineer’s bunch.”

“How’d it happen, Jim?” asked somebody.

“Dunno. I was fishing and watching that little boat when all of a sudden I slipped,” said the man readily.

“Recognize that chap?” asked Ned in a whisper, of Herc.

“Yes, it’s the fellow that gave us such a sizing up the other day.”

“That’s it. Take a little stroll this way, I’ve something to tell you.”

Ned seized the mystified Herc’s arm and led him away from the group clustered about Prentice, laughing and condoling with him.

“What do you suppose that fellow went overboard for?” asked Ned mysteriously, as soon as they were out of earshot of the men.

“That’s a bright question,—because he couldn’t help it, I suppose.”

“Not he. He went over for a purpose.”

“For a purpose?” echoed Herc, looking sharply at Ned.

“That’s what I said.”

“Oh, for a swim, I suppose you mean—an unofficial swim.”

“No, something quite different from that.” Ned sunk his voice. “He went overboard to pick up a bit of paper that fellow in the boat threw out.”

Had a bombshell exploded at Herc’s feet, he could not have looked more astonished.

“Your mind works quicker than mine, I guess, Ned,” he said, “just as your eyesight is quicker. I didn’t see any bit of paper, but supposing there was?”

“Well, it may mean nothing. The fellow may have a sweetheart ashore who chooses this means of sending him a message, and then again——”

“It might all have been an accident.”

“We may have a traitor on board,” resumed Ned, not paying any attention to the interruption.

But whatever Ned’s suspicions were, the call to supper prevented further voicing of them. In the midst of the noise and laughter and bandying of jokes that goes on about the jackies’ table, it was, of course, impossible to exchange any more conversation on the subject on their minds. Soon after the meal, when darkness had fallen, a messenger from the commander of the Beale slipped unobtrusively up to Ned.

“Wanted aft, Strong,” he said, with a significant look.

Ned readily comprehended. The consulate launch must have come off while they were at supper. Hastily he summoned his friends. Without attracting any attention from the chatting, laughing tars, the trio slipped past the funnels and the conning tower, till they stood at the edge of the quarterdeck awning. Here they stopped respectfully. Naval etiquette did not allow them farther unless by command or permission. Ned, however, with a sidewise glance, had noted that the dark outline of the consulate launch, a craft about thirty feet long, lay at the starboard gangway. The consul himself, a tall, dignified-looking man, with gray hair and goatee, sat in an easy chair talking to Lieutenant Timmons and his officers. The incandescents, which had been rigged under the awning, threw a sharp light on his features.

“Ready, sir!” said Ned, saluting, as did the others.

“All right, Strong,” rejoined the commander of the Beale. “Your men are here, Stark,” he said, as the middy came forward.

“You men will need arms,” said Stark. Diving below, he presently came up with three heavy caliber, service revolvers. He gave one to each of his followers.

A few minutes later they were in the launch and ready to start. It had been decided at the last moment that, instead of putting off directly from the Beale when the gun-running launch hove in sight, it would be better to lie off one of the points at the entrance of the harbor, and then follow her up at a discreet distance. The boys were in ignorance of this, of course, but the man who crouched over the motor-boat’s engines evidently had his orders.

The midshipman, who sat up forward at the wheel, gave the bell handle two sharp jerks—the sign to get under way.

Chug-chug!

The motor instantly took up its tune, and, with the muffler almost silencing the noises of the motor’s explosions, they glided into the velvety darkness illumined only by the bright tropical stars. The headland, in the shadow of which they were to wait, was soon reached, and then followed a long period of silence and watching.

At last, however, out of the blackness lying harborward, came a motor-boat’s sharp cough. It grew rapidly nearer and louder.

“Here they come!” breathed Stark, in a low, tense voice.

---

Closer and closer came the sharp, insistent bark of the gasoline motor. Presently a dark shadow glided by at about six boat-lengths from the consul’s launch, lying crouched, as it were, in the shadow of the promontory.

“They’re evidently not afraid of being followed,” whispered Ned, as they waited the midshipman’s word to start up their craft.

At last the command came. The young officer had hesitated to give it sooner, as he wanted to make sure of being out of earshot of the leading motor-boat before he started. Loaded down as she was, the revolutionaries’ craft was making but slow time. It was evident, though, from the rapid beat of her exhaust that her engine was being pressed to the uttermost.

“All right, go ahead!”

Like a ferret in pursuit of its prey, the naval party’s launch glided out of its obscurity and set off on what was to prove an eventful chase.

“They’re heading north, sir,” whispered Ned.

“Just as I thought,” came Midshipman Stark’s voice in the darkness.

Luckily the wind was out of that quarter, and while the sound of the other craft’s exhaust was clearly borne back to them, of their own progress it would have been manifestly impossible to hear a sound on the leading launch.

“Speed her up a bit,” ordered the middy. “We don’t want them cutting in shore on us before we’ve a chance to intercept them.”

The launch leaped forward in obedience to his command. She was making a good ten knots now, while her adversary could not at the highest estimate have achieved more than seven. The hearts of all on board beat exultingly. Gradually they could make out a phosphorescent gleam on the water ahead and catch the fleeting glimpse of a dim lantern, which marked the whereabouts of the quarry.

“Good, we’ll be up with her in half an hour now,” muttered Stanley, his eyes burning in his head as he riveted them greedily on the chase. The man-of-war’s man was on the work he loved best. The hot blood raced through his veins in the excitement of the chase, as was the case, in fact, with all the party, with one exception. Who that was we shall presently see.

For an hour the steady pursuit was kept up, the naval party keeping as close as they dared to the stern of the other craft. Evidently their plan was working to perfection. It was clear that those on the leading boat had no idea that they were being pursued. Once or twice a snatch of song floated back to those behind her.

“Sing away while you’ve got the chance,” muttered Stanley grimly. “You’ll sing a different tune before long.”

Suddenly out of the blackness ahead something flashed from a low point of land.

“A red light!” exclaimed Ned.

“Red light ahead, sir!” warned Stanley hoarsely.

“Ay, ay, I see it,” breathed the middy. “We’re on the old fox’s hole now.”

All at once the speed of the launch, which had been as steady as an automobile, suddenly checked. She began to drop behind.

“Consarn it! what’s the trouble now?” growled Stanley, while the middy skipped aft.

“What’s the matter, my man?” he asked of the solitary figure bending over the engine.

“Don’t know, sir. The motor’s slowing down.”

“Well, fix her, and fix her quick. We can’t afford to lose time now.”

“Sorry, sir,” muttered the engineer, “but it may take some time to locate the trouble.”

He bent over the engine and appeared to be deep in efforts to adjust it. But Ned’s quick ear had caught a sound which sent him leaping back along the length of the launch’s cockpit. Hastily he bent over the engine and felt a bearing. It was hot to the touch, and he withdrew his hand sharply, but some substance clung to it. In the light of the single lamp illumining the motor he extended his palm for the officer’s inspection.

“Sand, sir!”

“You scoundrel, were you trying to cripple the motor?” shot out the middy, his eyes flashing.

The engineer turned up a white, scared face. As the light of the lantern illumined it Ned could not suppress a cry of surprise and recognition. The man was the same who had dived overboard for the letter from the fishing boat, and who had aroused the boy’s suspicion on other occasions.

“Why, no, sir!” exclaimed the man in an injured tone. “You see, we keep sand to extinguish a fire in case one starts from the gasoline. I guess some of it got sprinkled on the bearing.”

“And I think you’re lying,” muttered Ned, as he rapidly cleansed the bearing and the launch once more shot ahead.

Now the red light was swinging to and fro on the point as if it were a signal.

“I guess the revolutionists are camped there as thick as flies round molasses,” hazarded Stanley. “What are we to do, sir—keep on?”

“Yes, keep on!” ordered the middy in a tense voice. Though he strove to keep them calm, his accents were vibrant with suppressed excitement.

“Cut in there, Stanley, cut in!” he exclaimed suddenly, as the launch in the lead began to turn her nose toward the shore. By this time the naval launch had forged up into an inside position, and lay between the revolutionaries’ craft and the point. If there was shoal water there should be no difficulty in cutting the gun-runner off.

“Full speed ahead, and no monkeying with those engines,” grated out the middy, with so fierce a look that the engineer instantly obeyed.

Up and up they crept, without apparently being perceived, till they were within a boat’s length. Then a man was seen to leap upward on the stern of the other launch and gaze back. He gave a shout of surprise as he saw the other boat creeping up to intercept them. Already the naval launch had cut the revolutionary agents off from their expected landing place.

“Pray Heaven we don’t hit a rock, and we’ve got them,” breathed Stanley.

Bang!

There was a flash of fire from the leading launch, and a bullet whistled past the heads of the pursuers.

“Now, then, wade in!” cried the midshipman excitedly.

Hardly five feet separated the launches now and the gap was rapidly closing. There was a grating sound, as the consul’s launch ran alongside the other. Before any one could stop him Stanley, with a wrench in his hand, jumped on board the gun-runner.

Crash!

He brought the wrench down with all his force on the spark plug of the other boat’s motor. With a groan and a sputter, she lay helpless as the explosions of her motor ceased.

“By Jove, we’re in for it now!” he heard Midshipman Stark exclaim, as two more bullets ploughed under the awning of their craft.

But totally taken by surprise, the figure which had fired the first shot from the leading launch took to the water with a splash. A second later another disturbance of the water announced that his companion had followed his example. This left only three frightened natives on board, who began crying out at the top of their voices for mercy.

“Shut up, or we’ll blow your heads off,” roared Stark, in a fierce voice, and, although they did not understand a word he said, the nature of his tones was quite sufficient to warn the peons that silence would be golden. They therefore subsided in the stern of the boat.

Stanley came leaping back on board the naval launch.

“We’ll have to tow her, sir,” he announced.

“And quickly, too,” rejoined the other in a low voice. “Those fellows ashore will wake up to what’s happened in a moment.”

“Thank goodness all those boxes are on board,” grinned Stanley, as he resumed the wheel and the launch, with her cumbersome tow alongside, started up.

“I guess that’s spiked the revolutionaries’ guns for a while!” exultingly exclaimed Stark. “Those guns would be worth a few hundred rifles to them if they had them.”

There had been no time to rig a hawser, and the disabled launch floated alongside the consul’s craft by a hastily fastened line, made fast about her forward samson-post.

“Come on, Stanley, head around!” exclaimed the middy. “We don’t want to be recognized in this thing.”

But Stanley at the wheel turned a white face toward his officer.

“This tide’s pulling us right down on the point, sir.”

“Great Scott! and it’s alive with troops, too, I’ll bet the admiral’s Sunday hat. Do your best, man.”

Stanley gritted his teeth and set the wheel hard over, but the launch still drifted.

“Look here, sir!” exclaimed Ned suddenly, “the tiller line’s broken!”

He held up a broken end of line.

“More treachery, or looks that way. Fix it up quick, Strong.”

Suddenly the dark trees along the shore burst into crackling flame. A deadly rifle fire poured from them. There was no doubt now as to the revolutionaries’ whereabouts.

“They’ve waked up at last!” exclaimed Ned, as having adjusted the broken line he leaped lightly forward once more.

At the same instant Stanley gave a slight groan, and jerked his hand from the wheel as if it had been red hot.

“Winged!” he exclaimed briefly, holding up a limp wrist.

Ned shoved him aside and seized the spokes. Already the wheel had dropped over, allowing the launch to drift nearer to the deadly point. Bullets fell about them like rain now. The air was full of their screaming sounds. They could hear the patter-patter as the leaden hail ricochetted over the water. The launch was struck in half a dozen places, but luckily not below the water line.

“Can you make it, Strong?”

It was Stark’s voice, as he leaned over the boy.

“I think so, sir. You’d better lie down. It’s getting pretty hot here.”

As he spoke a bullet whistled so close to Ned’s ear that he ducked.

“Hooray! a miss is as good as a mile,” yelled the boy, the excitement of battle coming over him. All his life Ned had dreamed and hoped of being in one of the naval engagements he had read about, and now, without the slightest warning, here he was in the thick of it. He would have given his chance of promotion almost to have been able to seize up his revolver and fire back at the revolutionists.

“There must be a hundred of them in there,” grunted Stanley, tearing off his shirt and allowing Herc to bind up his wrist.

“All of that,” rejoined Herc. “Wow, I hear the bees hum!”

The red-headed youth clapped his hand to his amber thatch as if to check the bullet that had just whistled past him. Ned, his heart beating tumultuously, stuck to his post. In another moment they would be past the promontory and out of danger.

Suddenly the engineer rose from beside his engines and climbed out on the little stern deck. He raised his hands above his head as if to dive and swim ashore.

“He’s gone mad from fright!” shouted Stanley.

“Look out for sharks!” warned Stark. “The water’s alive with them.”

But without heeding the warning cries, the panic-stricken wretch prepared to make a wild leap. There was a fresh volley from the point and a rattle of sharp reports. The engineer threw his hands above his head and collapsed in a moaning heap.

“A hit!” exclaimed Stanley grimly.

---

Ned stuck grittily to his post, although at any moment one of the bullets from the firing party ashore might have terminated his career. But presently, to his delight, the fire began to slacken and grow scattering.

“Guess they’re tired of wasting lead on the night,” grinned Ned, as, having rounded the promontory, he headed the two launches out to sea a way before turning to make back toward Boca del Sierras.

In the meantime Stanley and Herc had been bending over the wounded man. His eyes were closed and his face deadly pale. Herc for an instant feared, with an unpleasant thrill, that he was in the presence of death. No such timidity, however, assailed Stanley. With a quick move he ripped off the man’s shirt, which was ominously crimsoned.

“The lantern, please, sir,” he said.

Stark handed him the lamp, which had been placed in the bottom of the launch. Stanley held it above the man’s shoulder for an instant. It revealed a wound which was bleeding freely and looked ugly. But Stanley made light of it.

“Only a flesh wound,” he pronounced, “and if what I guess is right it’s no more than the rascal deserved.”

He ripped up the shirt into shreds, and began binding the wound.

While Stanley was engaged in this office for the man whom he believed, as did the two boys, to be a traitor of the blackest sort, Ned handed the wheel to Herc, and with Midshipman Stark boarded the prize. The first prize he had ever assisted in capturing! How proudly the boy’s heart beat as he thought of his part in the achievements of the night! Of the trouble into which their rash acts might plunge their government none of them thought just at that moment.

The frightened natives lay in the stern of the launch, where they had thrown themselves, groveling, when the firing commenced. It did not need a menacing flourish of Stark’s revolver to convince them that their best course was to be perfectly docile. They were that already. A more frightened set of individuals it would have been difficult to find.

“Here, you, who speaks English?” began Stark.

“I do, senor,” piped up a voice.

“Well, what have you got in those boxes?”

“Machinery, sir—ploughs and the like for Senor Charbonde’s plantation.”

“Charbonde!” exclaimed Ned, forgetful in his astonishment that he was committing a breach of discipline by speaking in the presence of an officer without leave.

“I—I beg your pardon, sir,” he began.

“That’s all right, Strong,” assented the midshipman hastily, “if you know anything about this business, go ahead. If we’ve got the wrong launch, we’ll be in a nice mess. It may, as he says, belong to this Senor Charbonde.”

“Who protects his plantation with riflemen, sir?” asked Ned quietly.

“By Jove! that didn’t occur to me. But go on—question this fellow.”

“Was Senor Charbonde on board to-night?”

“Yes, sir, he arrived to-day on the mail steamer with another senor—an American.”

“An American engaged in this dastardly business!” exclaimed the midshipman.

“Yes, sir. Senor Hark—I forget the name.”

“Not Harkins?” fairly shouted Ned.

“That’s the name, senor. He swam ashore with the other senor when we saw your launch coming. As for us, we could not swim, so we waited the fate the saints held in store for us.”

“You know this Charbonde, Strong?” asked the midshipman in astonishment.

“Yes, sir, and a greater blackguard never drew breath. But I’ll tell you all about him and his companion Harkins at some other time. There is something in this I don’t understand, sir.”

“Well, the first step in the way of an understanding will be to get these boxes open!” exclaimed the midshipman.

“Hey, hombre!” he went on, “have you got a hatchet there?”

“Si, senor.”

“Hand it over then, quick—ah, that’s it! Now we shan’t be long.”

With a quick stroke the middy ripped the covering boards off one of the cases and pulled out a handful of excelsior, and tore off some sacking. Snugly packed within were the parts of numerous rapid-fire guns.

“Hooray! we were right after all!” he exclaimed. “This is a find, and no mistake. Why, these guns would be almost worth their weight in gold to those fellows in their attack on Boca del Sierras.”

Suddenly out of the darkness came a sharp hail.

“Boat ahoy!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” hailed the midshipman. “It’s Lieutenant Timmons’ voice!” he exclaimed, in an undertone.

“Lay to there, Stanley.”

The man-of-war’s man obeyed. He had by this time finished patching up the man we know as Prentice, who had regained consciousness. Motionless the two boats lay on the water while the other approached. It was soon seen to be the Beale’s gasoline launch.

“What’s been happening, Stark?” demanded Lieutenant Timmons, as his craft ranged alongside. “What was all that firing?”

“Why, sir, we ran into a hotbed of revolutionists.”

“What, and they fired at you?”

“A little, sir,” came with grim humor from the middy.

“Good gracious! it sounded like a brisk engagement. Any one hurt?”

“Stanley has a slight wound on his wrist, sir. The engine-room man is also wounded—a flesh cut on his shoulder.”

“Thank Heaven it was nothing more serious! I did not know what to think when I heard the firing.”

“But what is that launch they have there, sir?” prompted Ensign Conkling, who had accompanied his superior officer.

“Exactly. Ahoy there, Stark, what’s that launch you have alongside?”

“That’s our prize, sir.”

“Your prize?”

“Yes, sir. She’s loaded with machine guns of the latest type. I rather think, sir, we’ve put a crimp in the revolutionists’ plans.”

Lieutenant Timmons burst into a laugh.

“I should rather think so!” he exclaimed, “but, you young rascal, are you aware that serious complications may follow this action?”

“Why, sir, I——” began Stark, all his conceit gone, and a rather embarrassed feeling coming in its stead. “I, sir, that is——”

“Oh, well, never mind explanations now. You have done splendidly, and upheld the best traditions of the navy. I wish we could all have a chance at those chaps. But the thing to decide now is what to do with those captured guns.”

“If you will not think it presumptuous, sir, I have a suggestion,” volunteered Stark.

“And that is?”

“That we turn the guns over to those who need them most, like they do presentation bouquets to a hospital.”

“Your analogy is very apt, Stark. Who would you suggest making the recipients of these ‘flowers.’”

“Why, sir, the men who can use them to the best advantage—our friends, the Costavezan government troops.”

“An excellent idea, my boy, except for one thing—United States naval officers cannot figure as combatants in this affair, and I’m afraid that if to-night’s adventures are ever traced to their source that would be the inference that would be drawn.”

“Why not turn them over to the consul, sir?” suggested the ensign, “perhaps he could devise a way of their reaching a desirable destination without Mr. Stark and the men figuring in the thing.”

“That’s the best plan yet, Conkling. We’ll do it!” exclaimed Lieutenant Timmons. “Colonel Thompson is still on board. I’ll consult with him on my return.”

“And these fellows, sir?” asked Stark, indicating the crouching natives.

“I expect the best thing to do with them will be to place them in the hands of the government till this affair is straightened out one way or another. If we turn them loose they might do too much talking.”

And so it was arranged.

Shortly afterward the three launches arrived alongside the Beale and a surgeon was summoned to attend to Prentice’s wound. It was an ugly enough one to keep him in his hammock for some days. The consul readily undertook to see that the arms, recaptured so happily, reached the place where they would do the most good. Midshipman Stark came in for hearty congratulations, and Strong, Taylor and Stanley were not omitted in the praise showered by those who heard of the adventure.

“Those three fellows are as fine specimens of American sailors as I have encountered in many a year in the service,” said Lieutenant Timmons, as the trio went forward blushing with pleasure. “Some day it wouldn’t surprise me to see Strong and Taylor with commissions.”

“You amaze me!” exclaimed the consul. “They must be very remarkable youths.”

“They are, colonel. Did I ever tell you how they saved me and several others from a terrible death when we had that flare-back on the Manhattan? No? Well, here goes.”

Lighting a fresh cigar Lieutenant Timmons plunged into the story he never tired of telling, and with which readers of the “Dreadnought Boys on Battle Practice” are familiar.

The next morning what Herc still called the “chores” were hardly completed, and the men who smoked had scarcely ignited an after-breakfast pipe, before a summons came forward for Ned and Herc. Responding, they found Lieutenant Timmons on the quarterdeck holding a pink slip of paper in his hand. By his side stood Midshipman Stark looking very important and pleased.

“Ah, Strong and Taylor!” exclaimed the lieutenant as they appeared, “I have some more special duty to assign you to. I want to inform you beforehand, though, that it is of such a perilous character that if——”

He stopped with a smile. The expression that had come over both boys’ faces as they guessed that he was going to inform them that they might refuse if they wanted to had checked him.

“Well,” he broke off amusedly, “I see it is useless to attempt to warn you. I merely felt it my duty to say so. I don’t mind telling you, moreover, that I should have felt disappointed if you had refused, although I should not have blamed you. You will go ashore shortly with Mr. Stark. Further instructions you will receive from him. I may inform you, however—but mind, this must not be repeated—that I have received a cipher message this morning. The government is intensely interested in developments. Washington must be informed as soon as possible of the exact strength of the insurgents. It will be your duty, under Mr. Stark’s orders, of course, to find out. That is all.”

“One moment, sir,” broke in the midshipman, “the man Stanley—he would be a valuable aid, sir.”

“Very well, Stark, choose whom you wish—only bring this matter to a successful conclusion.”

The boys’ faces shone. The only drop of bitterness in the pleasure that was theirs in the thought of their important assignment, was removed now that Stanley was to be one of the party. They hastened to give him the information, which he received with a grim delight, and as much emotion as he ever allowed himself.

“Good thing that bullet didn’t put my flipper out of commission then,” he grinned, as he patted his wound of the night before, which luckily had proved to be a mere scratch, but painful at the time.

As our readers may have imagined, it was not part of Mr. Stark’s plan to go boldly marching into the insurgent main camp; nor was it his idea to perform scout duty, which might have taken a long time, and after all not have produced results. Lieutenant Timmons’ dispatch called for immediate action. At a consultation of the officers a plan, as ingenious as it was bold, had been hatched. What this was we shall shortly see.

It was not long before noon that a launch from the Beale put ashore a group of four plainly dressed young men, with nothing about them to distinguish them from the ordinary tourist type. Indeed, to heighten the illusion Midshipman Stark carried a red-bound guidebook, and a long puggaree gracefully floated from his sun helmet. In some naval theatricals some time before he had made a great hit as an Englishman. His mimicry and costume (the same he now wore) were declared perfect.

Ned, Herc and Stanley also wore tourist garb, and the quartette would have passed anywhere as a group of sightseers. Perhaps they were rather more robust, clear-eyed and bronzed than the ordinary run of such folk. It might have been noticed, too, that a handclasp of unusual warmth was exchanged between Lieutenant Timmons and his midshipman as the latter strode off with his companions.

“Good-by and good luck,” he breathed.

“And an answer for the government,” murmured Stark, as they strode off up the dusty street.

---

In their tourist costumes the four “scouts,” for such they now were, walked rapidly through the town, attracting no more attention than that bestowed on them by hordes of beggars and insistent vendors of various worthless native articles. But instead of annoying them, these rather dubious intentions delighted our party, as it was a good earnest of the effectiveness of their disguises.

After half an hour or so of walking under a broiling sun, the party began to traverse the outskirts of the city, where pigs roamed at large and naked children rolled delightedly in the gutters. Nobody made the slightest effort to molest them, and presently they reached the rear lines of the government troops entrenched about the city.

The soldiers seemed a happy-go-lucky lot. Some of them were smoking yellow paper cigarettes. Here was a group throwing dice on a drum head. There was an eager, interested circle about a cock fight. In one or two places sat a forlorn figure strumming some love song on a guitar. Their tents were ragged and patched, and their arms of the kind bought at government condemnation sales.

“But they can fight like wildcats,” Stanley assured his companions.

Their road led northward from the city below, along the edge of a steep cliff covered to its summit with tropical growth of vivid, staring green. Here and there little villas set back like colored jewels in a green setting. Below, a turquoise sea dashed itself against the rocks. It was a scene that at any other time would have delighted the Dreadnought Boys, but just then their thoughts were set on other things than scenery. About two miles out they passed through the last outpost of the Costavezan troops, and presently were traversing ground which lay between the lines of the opposing forces. It was blisteringly hot. None of the party noticed this, however, so intently were their minds occupied.

The main army of the insurgents lay, as they knew, across the range to the southwest of the town. The forces they were now headed for formed the victorious army of the north. It was by effecting a junction of these two forces at the very walls, so to speak, of Boca del Sierras that General de Guzman hoped to effect the capitulation of that city. What had become of the government forces, which the army before them had scattered, no one knew. It was supposed, however, that their officers were trying to reassemble their demoralized troops somewhere back in the jungles to the north.

“It wouldn’t take a large force to defend this road against an army,” observed Ned, as they pursued their way along the thoroughfare, which was in places literally hewn out of the cliff face.

“No,” agreed the midshipman, “but as I understand it the government fears that the insurgents’ navy—or rather the ships they captured from the government—may bombard the city from seaward at the same time the land forces make their attack. This would inevitably accomplish its downfall.”

“Not much doubt of that,” agreed Stanley. “If only the government had some boats, they could bottle up the insurgent fleet somewhere, and then go ahead and drive out the troops all around.”

“That’s it,” assented Stark, “but at present the government doesn’t know, and can’t find out, where the dickens the insurgents have hidden their fleet. They’d give a whole lot to know, I guess.”

“I reckon so, sir,” agreed Stanley, with a short laugh.

For some ten minutes more they walked on in silence. Then suddenly around a sharp curve in the road a black object came into view.

“A gun!” exclaimed Herc.

“Guns,” corrected Ned, as his eyes fell on several more of the field pieces commanding the road from points of vantage dug out high upon the cliff side.

“No danger of the government making a sortie up this road,” remarked the midshipman. “With all that artillery those fellows could hold anything.”

As they neared the first gun a young officer stepped forward briskly. Already concealed sentries had given warning of their approach.

“What do the senors wish?” he inquired politely enough, raising his hand to the peak of his red-embroidered cap.

It was evident that he took them for harmless, foolish tourists. The young officer hastened to assume the part he had decided to play. Ned could hardly suppress a grin as he listened to Midshipman Stark’s imitation of a British accent in reply.

“Just strolling around, old chap, you know,” he assured the young insurgent officer. “No harm—eh, what?”

“I suppose you know that you are within the lines of General de Guzman?” came the polite inquiry in rather astonished tones.

“No, really? By Jove, here’s luck. Always wanted to see an insurgent camp, you know—eh, Archie?”

Here Stark turned to Ned, who, taken by surprise, turned red and blurted out:

“Yes, by Jove,” in accents which no self-respecting Britisher would have owned to.

“I hardly know what to do,” said the young officer hesitating. “If you gentlemen will give me your word of honor that you are non-combatants?”

“We can,” rejoined Stark, without an instant’s hesitation. He was glad that he could make the assertion without the slightest warping of the truth.

“Very well, then. If you will follow me I will conduct you to General de Guzman.”

The four Americans exchanged glances of real dismay. They had figured on the general of the insurgents being miles away with the other army. As they learned afterward, however, their bad luck had brought him to the army of the north that very morning to tender his congratulations for its brilliant victory of the day before.

Undesirous as they were of meeting General de Guzman, who might prove to be more astute than the young officer, there was no help for it. They were fairly in for it. With somewhat downcast faces they followed their guide past the formidable rows of artillery and within the insurgent lines. So far as they could judge it was quite as well organized and better supplied with arms than that of the government. The men, cheered by their victories, appeared, too, to be in better mood than the Costavezans. Laughter was everywhere, and a degree of order and cleanliness not often found in South American insurgent forces.

“Evidently General de Guzman is a good commander,” thought Ned.

From time to time as they passed among the troops the young officer pointed out things of interest. If he had not already been so anxious over the result of their interview with the general, Midshipman Stark’s heart would have smote him for the deception he was practicing on this kind-hearted young host.

“You have seen service elsewhere?” he asked, as they walked along.

“Oh, yes, senor. I was with the Spanish troops in Morocco. We had what the Yankees call a ‘hot time’ there.”

“You do not like Yankees, as you call them.”

“No, I do not.” The young officer’s brow grew dark. “They are arrogant and overbearing. They interfere too much. They are opposed to this revolution, as they call it—perhaps you know?”

He turned an inquiring glance on Stark.

“Not the first thing about it, my dear fellow,” the masquerading middy hastened to assure him, with his accent laid on thicker than ever.

“They even have sent a small vessel of war—a destroyer, they call her—to harass us. The pigs! I would like to line them all up against a wall and shoot them down—one by one.”

“Well, this is a nice, friendly bunch we’ve run into,” whispered Herc, as he heard these words. “It’s enough to scare the British accent out of a fellow to hear that chap talk.”

“Hush!” warned Stanley, “he might hear you, and we’ve poked our noses into a bad enough hornets’ nest as it is, I’m thinking.”

So thought the others, too. Stark’s part was particularly hard to play, as upon him fell the burden of keeping up the conversation with the young officer.

Before long they came in sight of a pretty villa, with broad verandas well sheltered by various shade trees. Before it were tethered several saddle horses. One or two of them looked as if they had been ridden hard.

“The general’s present headquarters,” said the young officer, indicating the villa with a sweep of his hand. “Before, it was occupied by our leader, Colonel Vegas. Since the arrival of the general this morning, however, he has given it up to his superior.”

“Surely that is a side saddle I see on that horse yonder, old chap,” said Stark suddenly. “Are there ladies in your army?”

The young officer laughed heartily.

“You have curious ideas of our troops, sir. No, indeed, that horse belongs to the general’s niece.”

“Is that so?” inquired Stark, simulating an interest he was far from feeling.

“Yes, Senorita Isabelle de Guzman and——”

He stopped short as a sharp exclamation burst from Ned’s lips. It was entirely involuntary, but our readers will understand his astonishment at the name of Senorita Isabelle de Guzman when they recall that she was the young woman named in the will found on board the derelict.

“My companion suffers from a cold,” said Stark, with a sharp look at Ned, who, taking the hint, began to cough violently. He was glad of this excuse to cover his embarrassment, but his paroxysms did not prevent his keeping his ears open for the officer’s next words.

“She is one of the most beautiful young women in this part of South America,” he went on.

“Indeed,” commented Stark, “a prize for one of the general’s brave officers, perhaps?”

“Oh, no,” rejoined the Spanish-American, as if shocked at the bare idea. “She has no property. There would be no estate, no marriage portion with her hand.”

“Indeed! That is a requisite here, then?”

“Unquestionably, senor. You see, Donna Isabelle’s father, Senor de Guzman, was formerly a prisoner of the government, but he fled on a ship, which was never heard of again. It is whispered that he had expressed a wish to his brother, the general, that the estate might pass into the hands of his daughter. But, however that was, the general, as the next of kin, now enjoys it.”

“If only I had that will here,” thought Ned, and then the next instant reconsidered the matter. With things going the way they were, the document was unquestionably better off where it was.

The sound of loud voices came to them as they neared the villa, and through the open windows the boys could see bright uniforms grouped about a table, which was littered with maps and plans.

“Ah, the general is busy, and I dare not disturb him now,” said the young officer, as they entered the villa and emerged into a courtyard, the “patio” common to all Spanish-American houses. It was delightfully cool there after the hot, dusty glare of the camp.

“Well, we will stroll outside a bit and come back later on, old chap,” suggested Stark, glad to see a loophole of escape from the lion’s den into which he was beginning to imagine they had thrust themselves.

“Oh, no, senor,” said the young officer in quite a horrified tone. “The general would wish to see you. He may besides, perhaps, wish to question you concerning affairs in the town and relating to the small American vessel of war.”

“The deuce he will,” thought Stark. “Confounded little in the way of information he’ll get.”

Aloud he said:

“We shall be delighted, old fellow. Anything at all, you know. Delighted, I’m sure.”

“Phew!” whistled Ned in a low tone, “we’ve walked into a mouse-trap with a vengeance, and,” he added to himself as a heavy tread sounded, mingled with the jingling of a sword, “here comes the cat.”

The steps drew nearer, and the next minute from behind a group of magnificent fan palms appeared a squat, stout figure in a crimson uniform. From the precise military salute and respectful bearing of the lieutenant there was no question in the minds of the adventurers that they stood in the presence of the renowned General de Guzman. He was hailed in many quarters as the next dictator of Costaveza and the most inveterate enemy of Americans south of the Caribbean.

Ned regarded him curiously, while the young officer, stepping up, drew the general aside and began whispering to him. General de Guzman at that time was a man of about fifty, with a florid complexion, thick neck and heavy, black mustache. His inky hair waved crisply about his rotund face, which, as has been said, was florid—noticeably so. Evidently the general was a good liver. His short, stubby legs were incased in dusty riding boots, on which jingled a pair of immense spurs with blunt rowels. A sword with a jeweled hilt was at his hip. A holster, with a businesslike-looking Colt reposing in it, also hung there. For headgear the renowned revolutionary wore a Panama hat, with a broad, red band encircling it. Between his lips was a huge cigar as black almost as his hair and mustache. He chewed it nervously while he listened to the young officer’s explanations, which Ned realized related to themselves. He watched the pair anxiously, for on the events of the next few minutes depended their success and possibly their lives. Not a whit less were his comrades absorbed in regarding what might prove a momentous interview.

At last the general turned from the young officer and spoke. His voice was harsh and grating, and his words, for he used English, not calculated to relieve their apprehensions.

“Englishmen, eh?” he rasped out, gazing at them with a suspicious stare. “They look to me more like four cursed, inquisitive Yankees.”

---

If it had depended on Ned to speak at that instant the fate of the party would have been sealed then and there. His tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth. He regarded the ruddy-faced insurgent leader with a look of downright dismay. Fortunately, however, Midshipman Stark’s presence of mind did not desert him.

“Oh, I say, general, come!” he burst out, with a ghastly attempt at a laugh, “that’s a bit rough, eh?”

“Hum, you sound like an Englishman,” was the general’s comment. “I beg your pardon, senor, for mistaking you for a Yankee.”

The detestation with which he uttered the words convinced Ned—if he had, indeed, needed any convincing, that they were in as dangerous a position as could be imagined. One slip and they might find themselves with their backs against a wall, facing a row of insurgent rifles.

“If he ever speaks to me, it’s all off,” thought Ned, with a groan.

But luckily the general confined his conversation to Stark, who, as he went on, grew more confident.

“What seems to be the spirit of the city?” asked the general, after some questions regarding the number of ships in the harbor and so forth.

“Oh, favorable, general, favorable,” responded Stark confidently, feeling secure in his non-committal answer.

“You have been there long?”

“We arrived on the mail steamer yesterday, sir.”

“Indeed! then you were fellow passengers with one of my most faithful followers, Senor Charbonde?”

“Senor, I beg your pardon, I didn’t quite catch the name.”

“Senor Charbonde. You met him, did you not?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Charming chap, very. Delighted to make his acquaintance, upon my honor.”

“I am glad you like him, senor, for he is here now, and you will be able to renew your acquaintance.”

Had somebody stepped into the courtyard and offered him a commission as admiral of the Atlantic squadron, Ned could not have felt more dumfounded. Of course, from what they had learned from the peons on the captured launch the night before, they knew that Charbonde was in the country, but that he was so near at hand was a positive bombshell.

The blankest of blank looks passed between the Dreadnought Boys and Stanley.

“Stand by for trouble now,” whispered Stanley to Ned.

“The jig is up,” was Herc’s contribution.

Ned, true to his promise, had placed the midshipman in possession of the facts connected with their knowledge of the insurgent agent, so that the general’s words were fully as disquieting to him as to the others. Although there was no possibility of General de Guzman’s knowing the cause of their evident perturbation, he evidently noted it, for a malicious smile curled his lips. He suddenly turned, as some footsteps sounded behind him, and a tall figure, escorting a young woman in a riding habit, appeared.

“Ah, Senor Charbonde,” greeted the general, “some friends of yours are here.”

“Friends of mine, sir?” exclaimed Charbonde in an astonished tone. He dropped the young woman’s arm and came forward.

“Yes. The delightful English gentlemen you met on the mail steamer.”

“I—I beg your pardon, general, I——”

“There they are, sir—there!” exclaimed the general, motioning impatiently toward the party from the Beale.

“Why, sir, those are not Englishmen. At least, two of them are not. Those two fellows there are sailors off the Beale—the American destroyer.”

The blow had fallen. Now that it had come Ned felt himself surprised at his calmness. That all was over now he felt little doubt.

“Well, shooting’s a quick death,” he thought.

Suddenly the voice of the general broke the tense silence.

“Is this true?”

“There is no doubt of it, sir!” exclaimed Charbonde, “and moreover I verily believe that Providence has delivered into our hands the very men who made off with our guns last night. See!” he exclaimed, pointing at Stanley’s bound wrist, which the sailor attempted to cover up too late, “that man is wounded.”

All this time the midshipman had stood motionless. Not a word had passed his lips. Now General de Guzman turned to him with a savage look.

“What have you to say to this, Mr. Englishman?”

“That I am sorry I tried to take you in,” shot out Stark crisply. “I am an American officer, and proud of my commission.”

“So, since when has it been the duty of American officers to come skulkingly disguised within the lines of neutral forces?”

“Our errand here was one of curiosity only and purely of a non-combative nature,” protested Stark.

“Bah! sir. Bah!” exclaimed the general angrily, impatiently, “do not bandy words with me.”

He drew a whistle from his belt and blew it. Instantly a score of soldiers entered the courtyard. Their bayonets were fixed and their expressions fierce.

“Make those men prisoners,” ordered the general in Spanish.

“Surely you do not intend to make captive four American citizens?” asked Stark.

“I do, sir, and shall likewise call a summary court-martial to decide upon your fate.”

Even the courageous Stanley’s lips went white at this. A court-martial meant only one thing—a mockery of trial, and then—a file of insurgents and a hasty grave.

“In that case, general,” pleaded the middy, “let these men go. I am an officer, and came here on my own responsibility. They were merely obeying orders. You cannot hold them responsible.”

“You are all equally guilty in my eyes,” was the short reply.

“But,” broke out Stark desperately, “you don’t understand. You can’t. This mission of ours here has nothing to do with our government. It’s just a lark—a stupid one, I admit, but a joke nevertheless.”

“I beg to differ with you, sir. American officers are not in the habit of playing such ‘jokes,’ as you call them. You are spies, sir!”

“It’s all over,” groaned Stanley. “Shiver my timbers, Mr. Stark,” tapping his revolver, “but I’ve six bullets in here that are just itching to find their way into a South American carcass.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Stanley, take your hand off your revolver. You may cost us all our lives.”

“I’m afraid they’re as good as gone already, sir,” muttered the man-of-war’s man gloomily.

General de Guzman seemed disinclined to continue the interview.

“Take them away,” he ordered brusquely, turning away, while his spurs rang sharply on the tiled floor of the court.

Ned felt desperate. Had it not been for his officer’s positive order he would have suggested fighting their way out desperately. It is true they could not have gone more than a few feet before they would have been pierced with insurgent bullets, but at least they would have had the satisfaction of dying in action. Suddenly the girl, a tall, slender young woman, with great masses of black hair coiled about a shapely head and large, luminous eyes, emerged from behind the palm, where she had been a silent witness of the scene. The sight of her recalled the will to Ned’s mind, and gave him a sudden desperate inspiration.

In an access of bravado he hurled some sharp speech at the general.

“We know the secret of Don Maritano’s will!”

If Ned had expected to produce a sensation he was gratified. The general wheeled with an oath, his hand on his sword hilt. For a second Ned saw that it was in his mind to draw it and run the bold American through. The girl, with her lips parted and with burning eyes, gave a scream.

“The will of my father!”

“Hush!” exclaimed the general. “Leave us at once.”

He came threateningly toward Ned. The girl retreated a few steps, but made no further effort to obey her uncle’s command.

“You insolent Americano!” he exclaimed, “What did you mean by those words?”

“What I said,” shot out Ned, enjoying the other’s angry perplexity and manifest uneasiness, “we know of the will.”

“Good heavens, Strong, what have you done?” whispered the midshipman. “What is this will?”

“It is in the possession of Lieutenant Timmons, sir,” retorted Ned, “and may become a powerful instrument in our hands.”

“I hope so, I am sure,” breathed Stark, “but just at present it looks as if it was an instrument to get us into more trouble.”

For an instant General de Guzman seemed puzzled how to act. He toyed with the tassels on the hilt of his sword. A perplexed, worried look played over his features. “Evidently,” thought Ned, “there’s some mystery connected with the will, and in some wonderful way I’ve hit him in a tender spot.”

Suddenly the general spoke. He addressed Charbonde.

“Take these men under a strong escort to Miraflores prison,” he commanded. “I will decide on their fate later.”

Surrounded as they were, there was not the slightest use in making any resistance. Even a show of it might have resulted fatally. Our heroes therefore submitted with the best grace they could to being marched like convicted felons from the headquarters of the insurgent leader.

As they left the place and emerged into the blinding sunlight, which lay scorchingly on the camp, a figure stepped up to them. With a flash of amazement Ned recognized Hank Harkins. The renegade American youth’s face was illumined by a malicious grin as he saw their plight.

“Hullo, there!” he snarled, coming right up close to Ned, “getting a taste of the handcuffs, eh? They’ll shoot you sure as time, and I’ll be there to see.”

Biff!

Ned’s hot temper had suffered a sudden boiling over. It was a relief to find an outlet for it. As his fist collided with Hank Harkins’ grin, wiping it instantaneously into nothingness, the youth stumbled backward and fell in a heap on the ground.

“Hit him another for me,” grunted Stanley, as he gazed with intense satisfaction on the recumbent form.

---

Through the jeering camp the American prisoners were marched. They had, of course, been searched and their revolvers confiscated. How fortunate, Ned thought it then, that he had left the will in safe hands before they started on their perilous errand. From the general’s manner, he had seen that it was of even more importance than he had deemed it.

“I wonder if he is not withholding his niece’s inheritance from her,” he thought.

But there was little opportunity for reflection as they were hurried along the white coast road toward Miraflores. All the way they were greeted with jeers and execrations.

“Yankee pigs” was the mildest of the epithets hurled at them with true South American vehemence.

Behind the file of soldiers which formed their escort came Charbonde and Hank, both mounted on wiry little native horses. The latter held a handkerchief to his face, on which a large, dark bruise was rapidly forming. At that moment Hank would have ridden a much greater distance than the few miles to Miraflores to witness Ned’s execution.

At last they entered the town—a fair-sized place under a sloping bank of greenery. In front stretched the sea. In a vain hope of rescue from thence the sailors looked ocean-ward, but the expanse was empty of life. Not a sail or a funnel marred its glistening surface.

Through the town, while women joined the ranks of their tormentors, the dusty, worried Americans were marched straight up to a small building with barred windows.

“The prison!” flashed across Ned’s mind.

But he soon found that the place was a courtroom—dark, cool and dusty. At the head of a long table standing on trestles, which occupied the center of the chamber, Charbonde took his seat. There were some papers there and ink and pens. He wrote rapidly for several minutes, while the prisoners stood dejectedly amidst their guards at the other end of the table. Hank stood by the South American, leaning over and occasionally offering advice, or so it seemed.

At last Charbonde looked up. As he did so a thrill of horror passed through the boys. They realized at last that this room was the courtroom in which they were to undergo the mockery of a trial for their lives. As they waited several other officers sauntered in as if to a show. One of them addressed Charbonde as colonel. This explained at once his precedence at the so-called court-martial.

Standing up, Charbonde read rapidly in a sing-song voice from the indictment he had just drawn up. As it was in Spanish the Dreadnought Boys did not understand a word of it. So rapidly did the colonel—as we must now call him—read, in fact, that even Midshipman Stark and Stanley, both of whom understood the language, had but a vague idea of the charges.

“Well, gentlemen, what have you to say?” inquired Charbonde, as he finished reading from the document.

“Do I understand that you have charged us with conducting a naval expedition into your lines for the purposes of ascertaining your forces and position?” asked the middy in a firm voice.

“You do, sir,” rejoined Charbonde, sitting back and nibbling his pen point in a judicial manner. It was evident that he was enjoying the situation thoroughly.

“But—but I protest,” burst out the young officer, “the navy has nothing whatever to do with this thing. It is purely a private enterprise—if you want to call it that. Don’t you understand?”

“I must confess I do not. There now remains but one thing to do. Gentlemen, you have heard the evidence and the defense, what is your verdict?”

He turned to the lounging officers.

“This is an outrage!” shouted the midshipman. “I demand to be heard. I——”

A touch on his arm quieted him. It was Stanley.

“Keep cool, sir,” he advised, “it ain’t no use appealing to reason when you find yourself in a den of tigers.”

After a few moments of whispering among themselves, Charbonde stepped forward from the group of officers. All looked curiously at the boys.

“The court finds you guilty as charged,” he said in a crisp, curt voice. “It is now my duty to impose sentence.”

Utter silence fell in the gloomy room. Outside could be heard the rattle of a sentry’s rifle as he changed arms. The hammer of a horse’s hoofs across a distant bridge was painfully distinct.

“I sentence you to be shot to-morrow at sunrise!”

“Great heavens! you can’t mean this. We——”

“Now, then, sir, steady on,” warned Stanley once more, as the middy was beginning a fresh plea. “It won’t do any good, sir.”

“Remove the prisoners and see that they are guarded closely,” came the next command from Charbonde.

“Keep a stiff upper lip, Herc,” whispered Ned, as they were marched from the room where this parody of a trial had taken place.

“All right, Ned,” answered the red-headed Dreadnought Boy grittily enough, “but it’s tough, isn’t it?”

Under his freckles and tan the lad was ashy white. Ned himself, pluckily as he tried to bear it, was not far from breaking down at that moment. Fortunately, however, for their self-respect—for they would rather have cut off their right hands than have shown any weakness before the South Americans—the very suddenness with which their doom had been pronounced had partially stunned them. Stanley shuffled forward down the dusty street as if in a daze. Midshipman Stark was in the same condition. Once when he got near to Ned he said in low voice:

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Strong. I got you into this mess.”

“Cheer up, sir,” comforted Ned, “we’re not dead yet.”

“True for you,” burst out Stanley, “and though this is a tight place we may wriggle out of it yet.”

It wasn’t much, but somehow to the condemned Americans even this scrap of cheerful conversation, forced from despairing hearts, was something. They stepped forward with a new confidence and faced the gibes and missiles of the street crowds with stiff upper lips. It was not long before their guard turned into a filthy alleyway. Marching a short distance up this narrow thoroughfare, the sergeant halted his file of men before a big oak door, studded with huge nails. He opened it, and a rush of fetid air poured out from the dark interior on which the portal opened. It was the Dreadnought Boys’ first taste of the breath of a South American prison.

The guard motioned for them to enter. They did so, stumbling half blindly into the odoriferous, gloomy place. The next instant the door clanged to, and they heard a metallic jangling, as the fastenings were secured on the outside. The middy, the full sense of their predicament breaking upon him at last, threw himself on a narrow bench at one side of the chamber. A ray of sun falling through a narrow, barred window high up illumined his shoulders. They were heaving.

“Here, come over this way,” muttered Stanley. “It isn’t good to see an officer that way.”

“Do you think they mean to shoot us?” asked Herc in a shaky voice.

“No, sonny, I don’t. These dagoes are great on bluffs. I guess they just want to throw a scare into us. They wouldn’t dare to shoot four Americans at the word of a rat like that Chawedbone.”

Although Stanley assumed a light and indifferent tone in the hope of cheering up his comrades, his feelings were anything but confident. Ned also, although he said nothing, could not help recalling outrages he had read of in the newspapers in which Americans had been executed by South American troops, without a chance to defend themselves. But Stanley’s confidence had its effect on Herc and Midshipman Stark. Soon they fell to discussing their situation earnestly. Stanley’s first move was to “get his bearings,” as he called it.

With the aid of Ned’s shoulders he clambered up to the window and hung on by the bars.

“I can see the sea, anyway,” he called down.

“Is there any sign of the Beale?” asked the midshipman, with a wild hope for an instant that some chance might have brought her there.

The boatswain’s mate shook his head soberly as he alighted once more on the cell floor.

“No, sir, there ain’t,” he said, “and even if there were it wouldn’t do us any good.”

“Isn’t there a chance of getting out?”

Stanley hit the walls with his mighty fist.

“Hear that?” he asked; “solid as Gibraltar, as the advertisements say. And to make sure we don’t gouge our way out they’ve got three of those tin soldiers marching up and down in front.”

This was the death blow to their last lingering hope of escape. For a time they sat in silence, with bowed heads. Suddenly Stanley straightened up from the bench on which he had been sitting.

“Hark!” he exclaimed.

The sound of a horse galloping furiously was borne to their ears. It came nearer and nearer, and finally, to the prisoners’ astonishment, the steed was reined in in front of their place of confinement.

“What’s up now?” exclaimed Stanley wonderingly.

“Maybe a pardon or something,” suggested Herc.

But Stanley shook his head as the sound of excited voices outside filtered through into the cell.

“It’s a woman!” he gasped.

---

The voices outside rose high. Apparently the woman, who had, so they supposed, ridden up on the galloping horse, was having an argument with the guards.

“She is asking to see us!” exclaimed Stanley, in tones of amazement, after listening closely to the voices outside for a few minutes.

“And they are going to let her in!” he added the next instant.

Hardly had he spoken before the door of their dungeon was thrown open, and a shaft of blinding sunlight streamed in. The prisoners all rose to their feet as there entered the squalid cell a young woman in a riding habit. The four prisoners instantly recognized her as General de Guzman’s niece.

“Oh, the poor Americans!” she exclaimed, with a little shudder, as she gathered her riding skirt about her. The boys noted that it was dusty, and, taken in conjunction with the rapid pace of her horse, meant that she had ridden fast to what was to prove a momentous interview.

“To what are we indebted for this visit, senorita?” began Midshipman Stark.

He spoke in Spanish, but the girl checked him with a finger to her lips.

“Speak in English,” she said, “otherwise they will listen, and if they should report this to my uncle it might go hard with you.”

“It couldn’t go much worse,” muttered Stanley in a grim aside.

“Where is the one that spoke of my father,” went on the girl, tears brimming into her large eyes. “Ah! there he is. Tell me, sir, you have news of him?”

Ned came forward somewhat unwillingly as she spoke. It was going to be a hard task to tell this woman about the derelict and the almost certain proof it offered of her father’s death. Perhaps she read his thoughts, for as he hesitated she exclaimed:

“Do not seek to spare my feelings by not speaking plainly. I must tell you that since he fled the country on that sailing ship he has been mourned as dead by those who loved him. We have heard nothing of the ship for months. She never reached her destination, and there is little doubt that she was lost at sea.”

As mercifully as he could Ned told her of the encounter with the derelict and what had been found on board it. As the others watched her they conceived an intense admiration for this young South American. She heard Ned out bravely, though her lip quivered at this confirmation of her worst fears.

“Alas, for my poor mother!” she exclaimed, as Ned finished, “this will be terrible intelligence for her. She has hoped against hope, even though my uncle told her that it was certain we should never see my father again.”

“You live near here?” inquired the midshipman.

“Yes—that is, our plantation is four or five miles away. I rode straight from there after I had left the villa. But why do I say ‘our’ plantation when it is, in fact, my uncle’s?”

“But it belonged to your father?” asked Ned.

“That is true. But your confirmation of his death will strengthen the claim of General de Guzman upon it. You see, under our law, the property goes to him.”

“But not if there is a will expressly deeding it elsewhere?”

“Ah, no, senor, but there is not one. My poor father fled from the country disguised as a common sailor before he had even time to make provision for us. There is a suspicion that my uncle betrayed him.”

“I think you are mistaken,” said Ned gently. “There is a will, and I know its whereabouts. The document is now in possession of Lieutenant Timmons, of the United States torpedo-boat destroyer Beale. But he will surrender the document to your mother or yourself upon your application.”

“But why not upon yours, senor? Cannot you obtain it from him?”

Ned looked embarrassed.

“Um, well, you see——” he began.

“We are likely to be here for a few days. We are being detained for some time by your uncle,” put in the midshipman, coming to the rescue.

“But when you are free again? It is only a misunderstanding, I am sure.”

“When we are free again, senorita, we shall be delighted to do anything in our power to aid you,” went on Midshipman Stark, “but in the meantime it would be better for you to communicate with Mr. Timmons yourself if it becomes possible.”

“Thank you, gentlemen!” exclaimed the Spanish-American girl, with a grateful glance. “Be assured that my father’s will would be little to us were it not that my uncle threatens to banish both my mother and myself from our home unless——”

She paused, and was apparently overcome with confusion. Recovering herself, she went on proudly:

“But, after all—after all you have told me, you have a right to know. He is determined that I shall marry the man you saw me with to-day.”

“Chawed bone!” burst out Stanley, in a forecastle roar of indignation.

“Yes, senor, you are right,” said the young woman. “That is something like the name of the man.”

“But you don’t like him?” demanded the old sailor excitedly.

The young woman gazed at him in surprise, while Midshipman Stark shot a disapproving glance at the boatswain’s mate.

“No, I do not!” she declared, with a little stamp of her foot. At that moment the sergeant in charge of the sentries came in and uttered a few excited words.

“He says that he has received word that my uncle is on his way here, senors. Perhaps he is coming to release you. I hope so. But it will not do for him to find me here. Adios!”

In a flash she was gone, and the cell-room door clanged once more. Presently the rattle of her horse’s hoofs sounded, rapidly dying away in the distance.

“Well!” exclaimed the midshipman, drawing a long breath, “matters are getting complicated.”

“If she ever marries that Chawedbones——!” roared Stanley, shaking his fist.

But hardly had the sound of the departing senorita’s horse died away before a fresh clatter of hoofs, coming from the opposite direction, sounded.

“Here comes the general,” guessed Stanley. “Now stand by for squalls.”

His guess was right. The horses of the new arrivals were checked in front of the prison door, and after much clanking of the bolts General de Guzman himself stalked in, followed by Colonel Charbonde. In the background hovered Hank Harkins, but he did not enter the dungeon. The memory of Ned’s blow was too recent for that.

“Prisoners, I have come to make a proposal to you,” began the general, without any preliminaries.

The prisoners nodded. All but Ned wondered what was coming next. The Dreadnought Boy had already formed an idea. That he was correct in his surmise as to the cause of the general’s visit the next words of that officer proved.

“One of your number spoke of a will,” went on the insurgent leader. “For reasons of my own I wish it. I have come to offer you your lives in exchange for the document.”

“What do you want with it?” asked Ned.

“That does not concern you. It is sufficient that I wish it,” shot out the dictator. “Are you willing to give it to me?”

Ned’s eyes fell on Charbonde’s face at that moment. His repulsive countenance was fairly ablaze with eagerness.

“I’ll give him a shock,” thought Ned maliciously.

“In order that you may dictate terms to Senorita de Guzman and her mother, I suppose?” he inquired amiably.

The general’s face grew livid. Even through the gloom of the cell they could see his color change to an angry white.

“What do you know of this?” he thundered.

“Enough to send you to jail if you were in the United States,” retorted Ned coolly. “So you offer us our liberty for that document?”

“I do. But you had better hasten to accept. I may change my mind.”

“Oh, no, you won’t—not while you can assume authority over an unfortunate widow and her daughter. You want my answer to your proposition?”

“I do—yes. That is what I came for.”

“Then, so far as I am concerned, it is—no!”

“Same here,” put in the midshipman.

Herc echoed his words.

“Better make it unanimous,” grunted Stanley.

“I will have you searched!” shouted the general, “and then have you shot afterward.”

“Search away. Your soldiers will get some exercise, and that is all.”

The general stepped to the door and beckoned. A man stepped up to him—some one who had evidently been awaiting some such signal. With a start of astonishment the boys recognized the proprietor of the Villa Esperenza.

“Now, my good cousin,” said the general, addressing him, “did you not overhear these men consulting about this will?”

“Indeed, I did. It was in one of my soda summer houses. I heard every word.”

“You did, did you, you sea-swab?” bellowed Stanley. “I wish I’d got my fists on you then. There’d have been one less in the soda business.”

“And what became of the document?”

“That man there”—the man pointed out Ned—“thrust it into his sailor upper garment.”

Once more the general stepped to the door.

“Search these men,” he ordered, summoning in the squad of insurgent cavalry outside. Restraining a strong inclination to knock their searchers “galley west,” as Stanley put it, the Americans submitted to the ordeal. Of course, nothing was found of the will.

“Will you tell me where the document is?” demanded the general. “It is your last chance.”

“Oh, go away and don’t bother us,” said Stanley. “We want to sleep.”

“I am not addressing you, sir,” said the general, with almost a pleading note in his voice. “Remember, you are young, and life is sweet,” he added, turning to Ned; “one word and you are free.”

“All of us?”

“Yes, all of you. I will trust to your honor to deliver the document to me if you promise to do so.”

In that moment Ned was tried as men have seldom been tested. As the cunning general had pointed out, life was very sweet to him—so sweet that he had not dared to think of the last grim scene which would be enacted the next morning. But in his decision he held all their fates. By saying one word he could procure their liberation. But to do so he would have to sacrifice a girl’s happiness and rob a woman of estates that belonged to her by right. While he hesitated the same thoughts had been running through the minds of his comrades. Ned, gazing at them, saw that they were all of the same mind.

“Come!” It was the general’s voice. He was encouraged by the Dreadnought Boy’s hesitation, and put it down to a tacit acceptance of his base proposal.

“Come, you will say yes?”

“Not if it was the last day I had to live!” shot out Ned, and then halted, with a gasp of dismay, as he realized that, in all probability—short of a miracle happening—it was his last day to live.

“Unanimous again!” proclaimed Stanley, as the general turned inquiringly to him.

“Fools! You have signed your own death warrants,” snarled the insurgent leader, as he turned impatiently and, followed by his companions, left the cell.

As he did so a dull, booming sound came from seaward, followed by a loud, screeching rush overhead.

“What on earth is that?” gasped Ned. As he spoke, a terrific explosion sounded without, and the air became filled with sharp commands, outcries and groans.

“Sounds like a six-inch shell!” exclaimed Stanley.

---

“A shell!” echoed Ned.

As he spoke there came another screaming rush, and this time it was followed by a reverberating crash. The earth shook. The projectile had burst near at hand.

“Thought I hadn’t forgotten the tune,” muttered Stanley.

“There must be a ship to seaward pumping metal into this wasp nest!” exclaimed Midshipman Stark, his face burning with excitement.

“That’s it, sir, I think. Here, Strong, give me a leg up—so.”

Once more Stanley peered through the window, supporting himself as before.

“There’s some sort of craft out yonder,” he announced, fairly sputtering out his words in his excitement. “She’s firing so fast I can’t see her for smoke.”

Explosion followed explosion now. Bugle calls resounded amid the noise of falling buildings. The inmates of the prison could hear the clash of accouterments as troops raced by. Hoarse commands sounded near and far.

“There’s a fine picnic now, I’m thinking,” grinned Stanley, “and—Great Scott!”

An explosion louder than any of the preceding ones sounded. A choking dust filled the air. It drifted in through the window.

“Great Dewey! they’re shelling this building!” yelled Midshipman Stark.

Cr-as-h!

The place shook as if an earthquake had passed beneath it. Mingling with the roar of the exploding shell and the scream of the projectiles that were now pumping into the city came a sound of splintering and smashing.

“Those fellows have the range,” shouted Ned above the uproar.

“Yes, and if we don’t get out of here quick we’ll find a grave in the ruins,” roared the midshipman.

As he spoke the building shook to its foundations once more, and a heavy explosion rent the air.

“Too close for comfort,” decided Stanley. “Come on, we’ll try the door.”

Together the Americans rushed the portal. The strong oak withstood their united assault without a tremor, however.

“We’ll be killed like rats if we don’t escape!” exclaimed Herc despairingly.

“What are we to do?” gasped Ned, as they stood in the center of the prison, with the sweat streaming from them. Outside the bombardment grew heavier. It seemed incessant now. Suddenly Stanley gave an exclamation. His companions, gazing at him, saw that his cheeks were white.

“Do you smell something?” he choked out.

A pungent odor had filled the air of the prison within the last few minutes.

“Yes, smells like burning,” assented the middy.

“It is burning. The place is on fire.”

“On fire!”

“And burning like a dry haystack. If we’re not out of here in a few minutes we’re goners.”

Even while he spoke the sinister odor grew stronger. Now their horrified ears caught the crackle of the flames as they ate their way toward them. Sparks drifted in through the window and lay glowing on the floor of the place.

“The door! Try it once more. It’s our last chance!”

It was Stanley who spoke. His words came chokingly in the reek of the burning building. But as once more their shoulders crashed against the heavy portal they fell back with a groan of despair. They had made no more impression on it than if it had been made of boiler plate.

Suddenly an explosion, sharper and more ear-splitting than its predecessors, detonated—in their very faces, as it seemed. They were flung reeling in every direction, while suffocating fumes and dust filled the air.

Ned felt a sharp pain in his leg and put down his hand. It came away red and sticky. A flying splinter had struck him. Anxiously he gazed about him. His companions lay as they had been flung. But an instant later they began scrambling to their feet.

“W-what happened?” gasped Ned.

“A shell burst in our faces almost—and look!”

Stanley’s voice broke off in a joyous yell.

The oaken door, riven and splintered by the projectile, hung saggingly on one hinge. A child could have pushed it open.

“I’d give six months’ pay to the fellow who aimed that gun!” cried Stanley, as the Americans charged in a body on the tottering portal. It was swept aside with a crash, and out they poured into the street. Their guards had long since fled. The only visible inhabitants about were the pigs. Here and there these horrible creatures were nosing huddled forms, which the boys realized with a chill were those of victims of the bombardment. It was the first glimpse of war at close quarters for Ned and Herc. They felt rather sickened.

But it was no time for indulging in such thoughts. All about them shells were bursting. More screamed past overhead. The air was filled with choking dust and acrid powder fumes.

Suddenly a sullen sound of firing sounded off to the right and below them. It was quite near at hand.

“The shore batteries!” cried Stanley. “Come on, we’ve got no time to lose.”

“Where can we go?” exclaimed Midshipman Stark. “If we go toward Boca del Sierras we’ll run right into the arms of the insurgents.”

“We’ll head for the shore!” exclaimed Stanley. “Come on.”

Suiting the action to the word, he started off, followed by the others. What a sight they presented! How different from the trim man-of-war’s men of every-day life! With faces grimed where dirt had rubbed into sweat, their clothes half in ribbons, cut and bleeding from scratches received when the providential shell burst, they looked more like savage combatants in a desperate fight for life than American sailors.

As they ran the disastrous effects of the bombardment were everywhere apparent. Houses which a short time before had been occupied,—gaped like open dolls’ houses, exposing to view the contents of every floor. Natives, some of them wounded and bleeding, staggered about under loads of cherished household goods. Once they passed a man half frenzied from fright, dashing aimlessly about with a parrot in a cage. More pathetic were the groups of women and children deserted by their cowardly men folk. These cowered in the shadow of the shell-riven buildings, in imminent danger of having the tottering structures collapse on them.

More than one of these latter groups the Americans found time to warn of their danger. But it was a hurried dash, with little time for acts of mercy or kindness. Curiously enough, above all other sounds, the squealing of the town pigs predominated. The creatures, frenzied by the confusion and noise, dashed about open-mouthed. They looked as dangerous as wild boars.

On dashed the Americans, and now a wandering breeze swept aside for a moment the clouds of heavy smoke enveloping the attacking ship, and they recognized her with a cry of surprise as the destroyer General Barrill, which they had last seen at Hermillo. Her decks flashed incessantly as her guns were worked. Stanley looked on approvingly.

“They’ll make a mess of this place.”

“I don’t know,” cried the middy suddenly, as a shell shrieked toward the courageous little craft. “The land batteries have opened fire.”

“And, by Christopher Columbus, they’ve got the range, too!” exclaimed Stanley, as a shell struck the water near the adventurous little destroyer.

“If only we were aboard her we would be safe for a while,” breathed Ned, as they perceived the red, white and blue, with the gold star, of the Costavezan republic floating at the bombarding vessel’s stern.

“It was my idea to make for her,” rejoined Stanley. “Come on, let’s get down on that little wharf there and wave to her. If we can attract their attention they’ll take us on board.”

“If the fire from the fort doesn’t get too hot, and they have to skedaddle first,” observed the middy.

There was good reason for his fear. Shells were now breaking all about the destroyer. So far, however, she seemed uninjured.

They gained the wharf that Stanley had indicated in a few minutes. As they stood breathless on the slender timbers Stanley gave a shout.

“A boat!” he exclaimed, pointing to a small dinghy moored below.

“Come on, we’ll row out!” cried the middy. “Get aboard there, men. Slippy now!”

In another moment they had put several boats’ lengths between themselves and the wharf.

“Hooray!” Ned could not help shouting, as the boat moved rapidly over the water. His enthusiasm received an abrupt check. Not a hundred yards from them a shell from the fort struck the water.

“They’ve seen us!” cried the middy.

“That may have been a chance shot, sir,” observed Stanley. “If they fire any more we’ll know then what their target is.”

Even as he spoke another shell whizzed toward them. It exploded in a “raying” smother of brown smoke.

“Wow! that was close,” exclaimed the boatswain’s mate, as the spray showered them.

“Another one like that——”

Boom!

The explosion cut short Ned’s words.

“They’re getting the range. That one wasn’t a hundred feet away,” grunted Stanley. “Give way now, boys.”

He suited the action to the word. His great muscles strained till the oar bent under his pull, but fast as the boat leaped through the water there was still a lamentably large space separating her from the torpedo-boat destroyer.

The General Barrill all this time had been firing away unceasingly at the shore, but without apparently succeeding in silencing one of the guns.

“I hope that our old general is up in that battery,” observed the middy, as a shell from the destroyer burst in clouds of dust right inside the fortifications, as it seemed.

“If he is, he swallowed some dust that time,” laughed Stanley. He glanced over his shoulder.

The General Barrill was not far now. They could see figures on her decks waving them encouragingly on.

“Come on, boys,” shouted Stanley, “a little more steam. That’s it. Now, we won’t be——”

A blinding flash filled the air about them. Involuntarily Ned and Herc threw their hands in front of their eyes. It was well they did so, for the quick movement threw Ned out of the path of a jagged piece of metal. It whisked past his ear viciously. A shell had exploded almost alongside them.

Before they could uncover their eyes the resulting swell swept down on the boat. Overloaded as she was, the water poured in over her gunwales in a torrent. It was useless to attempt to bail.

The detonation of the shell had hardly ceased ringing in their ears before the Americans were struggling in the water, with shells screaming and exploding all about them.

---

As the boat sank under them, Ned struck out for the General Barrill. He was a strong, swift swimmer, and almost as much at home in the water as on land or the deck of a battleship. To his intense relief, as he gazed about him, he saw the heads of his three companions bobbing up on the water near at hand. All were safe then.

“Swim on your backs,” Ned cried.

It was well they heeded his warning, for at that instant there came a shout from Stanley.

“Duck!”

That was all, but they instinctively obeyed. Even under the water they could feel the jar of the exploding shell which the sharp-eyed man-of-war’s man had spied coming toward them from the fort.

“I’ll bet General de Guzman and Charbonde are praying for our deaths harder than they ever did for anything in their lives before,” thought Ned, as he came to the surface.

The Americans swam on. Only a few feet now. Already hands were held out to them from the decks of the Costavezan destroyer.

“Swim, for Heaven’s sake, swim!”

The sudden cry came from the midshipman.

In their anxiety to gain the destroyer and avoid the shells from the land batteries, they had entirely forgotten another danger—sharks!

As the middy’s cry of warning sounded, a sharp, triangular fin, showing blackly above the blue, came rushing investigatingly toward them. It was followed by another and another. Truly there was desperate need of every ounce of energy that remained in their tired bodies.

How they did it Ned never knew. Subsequent comparison of notes revealed the fact that the others were quite as ignorant as he, but somehow they struggled on, till their outstretched fingers touched the sides of the General Barrill. Willing hands were extended from her decks, and they were drawn on board. None too soon, however, for as Ned’s toes left the water a greenish body gleamed near the surface and made a dart, like the spring of a tiger, for the rescued boy. Ned could not repress a shudder as he realized how very narrow his escape had been.

Had they not had the word “American” plainly inscribed in their faces, voices and actions, it is doubtful what would have been their reception on board the Costavezan sea-scout. As matters were, however, in spite of their positively tramp-like appearance, they were speedily recognized, before they even spoke, as belonging to the powerful nation which had befriended the South American power.

The decks of the General Barrill presented a vastly different appearance to the trim aspect of the Beale. They were littered with debris of the bombardment, and here and there Ned noted, with a shudder, some crimson splashes. Evidently the destroyer had not come off scot free in her daring attack. Even while he was subconsciously noting all this, a shell burst so close to the craft that a smother of spray showered her.

A young officer, wearing the somewhat gaudy naval uniform of Costaveza, and bedizened with a pair of huge gold epaulets, approached them.

“He looks like a bandmaster,” whispered Herc, in spite of Ned’s warning to keep quiet.

The officer bowed civilly and asked in that tongue if any of them spoke Spanish. Receiving an affirmative reply from Midshipman Stark, their new-found friend requested them to step aft. He led them to the small bridge on the conning tower, on which stood a tall, thin South American, with a pair of field glasses in his hand. His bronzed face was thrown into vivid relief by a pair of bristling white moustachios. In his faded uniform, very different from the brilliant trappings of his young officers, Captain Gomez looked every inch the sea fighter as he stood on his little bridge. He seemed as calm and self-possessed as if he were gazing at the affair as a safely situated spectator. By his side stood an officer peering into the range-finder and handling the gun controls.

Captain Gomez turned to a sailor, who stood at his elbow, as he noticed the Americans being piloted aft, and gave an order. The man’s hand shoved over the lever of the engine-room telegraph to “speed ahead.” At once the General Barrill began to forge through the water, pointing her nose to the north.

The fort fired viciously after her, but the range was lost, and their shells simply blew holes in the water.

The commander, his work for the moment over, greeted the newcomers cordially.

“We were on our way up the coast,” he explained after he had heard their story, “and, seeing signs of an insurgent battery ashore there, we decided to give the crew a little gun practice.”

“Of which they don’t seem to stand much in need,” smiled the midshipman.

The captain looked grave, but said nothing more for the moment. He ushered the castaways into his cabin and ordered refreshments for them. In the meantime he had flung open a cabin door and indicated a bathroom and some spare uniforms, which looked very inviting to the adventurers. When they emerged in their regalia, a decided improvement had taken place for the better in their appearance, though, to tell the truth, not all of the uniforms were a very correct fit.

A white-coated man, evidently a surgeon, entered the main cabin as they emerged from the bathroom. He spoke a few words to the captain, who crossed himself and muttered some words. His face had grown grave. Evidently what he had just heard was of a disquieting nature. He looked up as his guests filed in.

“Ah, gentlemen,” he said, “you must excuse me if I seem to be somewhat preoccupied. I have just heard that Lieutenant Santos, my gunnery officer, is dead. He was wounded in the engagement, but we all thought, till a few moments ago, that he would rally. I am seriously hampered now in handling my ship.”

“Were your losses great?” inquired the midshipman.

“No. With the exception of the officer, of whose death I have just learned, we escaped with two wounded and one killed. But Lieutenant Santos was a power among the men.”

The captain’s Latin blood seemed aroused. He smote the table with his lean fist. Suddenly he spoke.

“You gentlemen are naval men. You will understand my predicament. My crew is, at best, what you Americans call a ‘scratch one.’ You see, when the insurgents seemed likely to prove successful, the crews of the other government vessels, and, I am ashamed to say, the officers, too, deserted to the revolutionists’ cause. I had to take my crew as I could get them. Some are off merchant vessels. Others are landsmen. There are not more than a dozen trained men among them. Lieutenant Santos, however, was a man of marked ability. He was whipping them into shape splendidly.”

“I should think so if he handled the guns to-day,” interposed Midshipman Stark.

“I agree with you,” went on the captain. “Now, gentlemen, I was educated in your country, and I can see the faults of my countrymen. They are brave in success, but they lose heart when engaged for a lost cause. That is the case with the rest of my officers. Already they are wavering. I can see signs of it. It would take little to precipitate a mutiny.”

“A mutiny!” exclaimed Midshipman Stark, horrified.

“Yes,” calmly went on the old sea fighter, “in which case I would probably be shot or imprisoned on board my own craft.”

The Americans gazed at him in astonishment. Apparently the commander of the General Barrill occupied much the same position as a man in a powder magazine with a pipe in his mouth. By his account they understood that the one efficient officer on board, the only man on whom he could rely, had just passed away. “But, after all,” thought the middy, “our concern now is to get back to the Beale with our report. I’m afraid it won’t be an encouraging one.” Aloud, however, he said:

“You are going to put about for Boca del Sierras, sir?”

“No, we are bound north,” rejoined the captain. “We must be at Santa Anna to-night. In that harbor are the three vessels which went over to the insurgent side. It is my duty to prevent them leaving there and forming a blockade at Boca del Sierras.”

Ned saw at once the object of this. It was evident that the government authorities expected that an attack by the united insurgent armies was imminent. Against the armies alone the government forces stood a chance. In order to make matters certain, however, it would appear that the insurgent navy was to conduct a bombardment from the sea. If the ships were allowed to leave Santa Anna, the fall of Boca del Sierras seemed certain. The Dreadnought Boy felt a thrill of admiration go through him for the brave old sailor, who, with a mutinous, incompetent crew, and disaffected, inefficient officers, was going to what seemed certain death.

The captain was called forward at this point. Certain matters relating to the disposal of the possessions of the dead officer had come up. With a word of apology, he hastened from the cabin. Ned glanced from the port. The General Barrill was steaming close inshore along the palm-fringed coast. The sea was calm and blue and sparkling. The land breeze brought a balmy odor floating through the open port. It seemed hard to believe that in the midst of these placid surroundings they were on such intimate terms with semi-mutiny and the shadow of death.

They were all silent for a space. Perhaps the same thoughts occupied the minds of all. It was Midshipman Stark who broke the silence.

“It may be a long time before we see the Beale again,” he said.

“Looks so, sir,” agreed Stanley, “and if what that dago skipper says is right we stand a good chance of going to Davy Jones with the rest of his mucker crew.”

“I’m not so sure of that!” exclaimed the middy, his eyes sparkling. “You, Stanley, are a good gunner. There are no better hands at the guns in the navy than Strong and Taylor. Why can’t we take these fellows in hand and fight their ship for them?”

The sheer audacity of the idea took the others’ breath away.

“Well, sir,” broke out Stanley finally, “so far as we’re concerned——”

“You see,” went on the middy, interrupting, “we’ve got to stick aboard here till this captain gets ready to put about for Boca del Sierras. He’s obstinate, and a fighter from ’way back—you can see that in his eye. Now, here’s the proposition. If we get licked at Santa Anna we’ll all go to the bottom together. That chap would sink his ship before he’d be captured. On the other hand, if we win out we’ll help to smash the insurgents, do our country a good turn, and, at the same time, insure our getting back to the ship.”

Looked at in this light, the thing which they all secretly wished to do became of necessity the logical, right thing to go forward with. So they all agreed, after some more discussion. It now only remained for the captain to give his consent to having his gunners drilled and officered by the Americans. The task of asking him this was taken out of their hands. On his return from forward, the tall, Quixotic-looking officer, after some humming and hawing, turned to the middy.

“I have a great favor to ask of you, sir,” he began. “My men—that is——”

“You want us to show them how to handle the guns!” burst out Midshipman Stark.

“Yes. But how did you guess it? I——”

“That is all right, sir, we’ll begin at once.”

“What, at once! Ah! I forgot you are American, and do not wait for to-morrow. Well, gentlemen, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and I——”

“Oh, never mind that, sir. If we don’t teach your men how to stick by the guns, we’ll never see the United States again, anyhow. Now, then, Stanley, I’ll appoint you in command of the gun deck, with full charge. Strong and Taylor, you are on an equal footing with Stanley, but obey his orders.”

The Dreadnought Boys grinned at this equivocal sort of a commission.

“I suppose we can have anything we want, sir. We’ve got to have carte blanche, you know,” spoke up the middy.

“Yes, anything, gentlemen, anything!” exclaimed the captain gratefully.

“All right, sir. Stanley, anything you want for your work?”

The boatswain’s mate had been gazing attentively at a group of the dusky-skinned crew. Without attempting to set the guns in shape or clean them after the brisk engagement off Miraflores, they were sitting about talking.

“Yes, sir,” rejoined the boatswain’s mate, turning from his disgusted scrutiny, “a service revolver and ammunition to match, please, sir.”

Some time after this the captain, seated in his cabin with Stark, who was listening with deep attention to the elder man while he outlined his plans, started up at a sudden noise borne in from the deck. It was an agonized wail of protest from one of the crew. Both occupants of the cabin sprang up, and, rushing up the companionway, gazed forward. They saw Stanley with raised gun prodding a reluctant gun-swabber to his work. All about was a scene of activity. Ned and Herc were already drilling a crew in the task of loading in American fashion, which was just five times as fast as the native way. A scene of activity of the most feverish character had succeeded to the leisurely appearance of things when the Americans came on board. The native officers stood about gazing on, astonished at the rapid change which was coming over their slovenly ship.

“Ah, you Americans! You’ll turn the world upside down some day!” breathed the captain admiringly.

---

The chart showed Santa Anna to be a harbor not unlike in formation that of Boca del Sierras. Instead of the town lying on a flat, however, it actually climbed up the sides of the steep range which sloped down to the water’s edge. Geographers have termed Costaveza a country set on edge. On no part of it was this characteristic more marked than at Santa Anna. But this feature interested the two persons in the captain’s cabin of the General Barrill less than certain red-inked portions of the coast line, marked “Forts.” These forts, the captain informed Midshipman Stark, were built in the rock above Santa Anna, and rendered the place practically impregnable from the sea.

“Then how are we to get in after the insurgent ships?” asked Stark, who had been informed that the captured vessels were lying inside the landlocked harbor, under the very guns of the forts, awaiting word to set out for Boca del Sierras. This, of course, would not be till the two armies had effected a juncture.

As the young officer asked the question, the captain smiled somewhat grimly.

“They will come out to us,” was his reply.

“Come out to us!” The boy’s voice held a note of astonishment, as well it might.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he went on, “but did I understand you correctly?”

“Perfectly, my boy. The General Barrill is capable of twenty-five knots. The fastest of the vessels lying in that harbor is the Manueal Calvo. She can make, under forced draught, about eighteen knots. The Bolivar and the Migueal de Barros are rebuilt steam yachts, and can almost come up to this pace, but I don’t imagine that they’ll want to burn coal at that rate unless they have to.”

The midshipman looked puzzled.

“I see that you have some plan, sir, but for the life of me I cannot comprehend it.”

“Well,” smiled the South American seaman, “you have seen in your country a retriever follow and make desperate efforts to capture a lame duck?”

“Why, yes, but I don’t see——”

“The General Barrill will be a lame duck,” said the veteran, with one of his grim smiles. “It is the only way we can draw the vessels lying in that harbor from under the protection of those guns of the forts.”

“I see, sir,” cried the midshipman, in a burst of comprehension. “You mean to play ’possum and drag them out to sea, and then pick their bones at your leisure.”

“Well, I don’t know about the latter part of it. But I am pretty certain we can lure them out. But recollect, young man, that it will be no child’s play. The Manueal Calvo, the flagship, mounts three six-inch guns and a secondary battery of rapid fires. The other two carry bow-chasers and stern guns of the same caliber, besides a battery of small rapid-fire rifles.”

“Phew!” whistled the middy. “Your country had money to spend on armament, sir.”

“I was minister of the marine for a time,” rejoined the other, with a mild sort of pride beaming on his weather-beaten countenance. “I saw to it that we were as well equipped as possible. Little did I dream, however, that one day my own guns would be turned against me.”

He sank his grizzled head in his hands, his impressible Latin temperament overcome for a moment at the bitterness of his thoughts. To create a diversion the middy struck in with another question.

“Have they torpedoes, sir?”

“Only the Bolivar. She is, in fact, a semi-torpedo boat. The others were being equipped with tubes when the revolution broke out, and the crews mutinied.”

“The Bolivar, then, is the only one that can plump a Whitehead at us?”

“That’s it, but she carries a good supply.”

“And so do we, don’t we?”

“I am sorry to say not. The last shipment of Whiteheads from your country was delayed. We have on board now not more than four.”

“Hum, that’s bad,” mused the middy. “However, captain, we have a first-rate armament, and I guess we’ll be able to give a good account of ourselves.”

“I sincerely hope so,” rejoined the other, with a dubious intonation that, in spite of his courage, made cold chills run down the middy’s spine, “but it is three against one——”

“Lame duck!” laughed Stark, throwing off his nervousness with an effort. “Do you intend to put your strategy into effect at once?”

“No, I think the best plan would be to cruise off here for a time. There is always a chance that they may send out one of the vessels alone to reconnoiter. In that case we could cut her off and have her at our mercy.”

“That is right,” agreed Stark, “but there is one serious objection.”

“And that is?”

“They are likely to see us from the shore and report our presence along the coast. That might precipitate a night attack or some sort of sortie that might put us in an awkward hole.”

“By the great bells of Sevilla, you are right. What do you suggest? You see, already I am beginning to lean on you Americans.”

The brave old captain smiled wanly as he spoke.

“Why, sir, I have a plan in my mind. It came to me while we were talking. The Barrill is exactly like the Beale, is she not?”

“They were built at the same yards. The Beale is slightly longer, and more modern, and heavily engined. But why?”

“Well, you have an American flag on board?”

“Yes,” rejoined the captain, still puzzled, “of course we carry saluting flags of every nation.”

“Then why can’t we masquerade as the Beale?”

“But how? The deception would soon be discovered.”

“Not at all. How?”

“Why, to begin with, the Beale has four funnels and we have but three.”

“That difficulty is easily surmounted.” The middy was beginning to warm to his subject now. “You have on board canvas, some spare lumber, and ‘war color’ paint?”

“Of course.”

“Then we’ll soon have a fourth funnel rigged, and then, with the Stars and Stripes flying, we’ll cruise up and down as we please, without exciting any attention.”

“But, senor, we cannot use the American flag in an action with the insurgents.”

“Good heavens, no. As it is, I must swear you to secrecy over our part in the whole affair. No, I only suggested the flag as an additional means of throwing them off the trail. If we go into action, of course, we’ll have to come out in our true colors.”

“By the saints, sir, you have indeed been sent by Heaven in the hour of my need!” cried the captain, springing up impulsively and, much to the lad’s embarrassment, flinging his arms about the middy. “I feel new fire in my veins, new hope, new ambitions. Give us good luck, and we’ll beat them yet.”

“But there’s a lot to be done,” admonished the practical middy. “And now, if you don’t mind, I would like to call into council my men, Strong and Taylor and the invaluable Stanley.”

So it came about that for two days following a four-funneled torpedo-boat destroyer, flying the American colors, was observed by the outposts at Santa Anna, leisurely cruising up and down the coast. The presence of the Beale, and her description was, however, known to them, and so they took it for granted—as who would not—that the four-funneled destroyer was the Yankee. Her presence gave them no uneasiness, as the American government, it was known, had only sent the vessel down into tropic waters to safeguard the interests of her citizens. Had the wires to Boca del Sierras not been cut in the engagement to the south of Santa Anna, the insurgents in the latter place might have put themselves in possession of some information which would have been valuable to them. To wit, that while the supposed Beale was cruising about seaward the real Beale lay snugly at Boca del Sierras. But this, of course, owing to the broken communication, they had no means of knowing.

During this interval, life on board the masquerading destroyer was one long round of practice drills in the American loading and firing methods. Ned and Herc, too, alternated in making test readings with the range-finder, till they became almost as expert as any gunnery officer in reading off the exact range. In the meantime Stanley, stripped to a singlet and trousers, toiled and sweated with his yellow pupils, who grew to like this rough-and-ready Americano very much. With their liking grew up a feeling of confidence. The bracing effect of the presence of the clean-cut Americans, who always went at a thing as if they meant it, had a great effect on the vacillating, hesitating Latins, both officers and men.

During this period, too, the Dreadnought Boys and their companions came to have a sincere respect and regard for Captain Gomez. Not one word of complaint or timidity had they heard him utter since they had been on board. They came to regard him as a man in a thousand. Courageous, yet gentle and courteous, he was a fine specimen of sea fighter. In this respect, it may be said in parenthesis, he differed widely from most of his race. Possibly his American education had something to do with it.

But whether it was her remarkable pertinacity in sticking to that one portion of the coast, or the fact that from her forward funnel no smoke was ever seen to issue, the commandant of the fortress of Santa Anna became suspicious on the morning of the third day and ordered the Manueal Calvo to stick her nose outside the harbor and look the supposed American over. Of course, her commander was ordered to make absolutely no move that could be construed into a hostile intention. His instructions, however, were to make a complete investigation of the mysterious craft.

And so it came about that when Stark emerged from his cabin before breakfast that day he found considerable excitement to greet him. The lookout had just sighted a moving column of black smoke above the promontory to the south of the town of Santa Anna.

Taking his place with the others on the bridge, the middy eagerly watched the dark pillar moving seaward, till presently the sharp, black nose of a yachtlike-looking vessel emerged from behind the green barrier.

“The Manueal Calvo!” exclaimed Captain Gomez, as his eyes fell on her.

At any other time the boys would have admired the picture she made. The water was spumed into a creamy bow wave by her sharp forefoot. Her yellow funnels poured clouds of black smoke against the blue heavens as she came on. Every line and stay showed sharp, as if etched, and the rising sun occasionally glinted on a bright gun or bit of brasswork. But just now the approach of the Calvo meant a lot more to them than a pretty picture. Their whole fate, their lives, in fact, might hang upon the events of the next few minutes.

Suddenly a string of bright flags broke out on the Calvo’s signal halliards between the fore and main masts.

At the same instant a bright flash showed at her quarter, followed by a sharp explosion. Captain Gomez, in his faded old uniform, trembled with excitement as he raised his glasses to his eyes and scanned the signal.

“They want us to heave to,” he announced.

---

“Shall we obey the signal?”

It was Ned who asked the question, his hand on the engine-room telegraph; for at the minute the Calvo had issued her request—or rather order, backed up as it was by the report of the gun—the Dreadnought Boy had been standing at the instrument.

“Yes,” ordered the captain; then, in reply to a questioning look from the others, he added:

“They will send a boat, and then we can put into execution a little plan which has just occurred to me.”

The necessary replying flags were run up on the General Barrill’s stumpy signal mast. In reply the Calvo steamed closer, and then lowered a boat.

As the two vessels lay bobbing on the swell, at a distance of a thousand yards or so from each other, the small craft struck the water, and the next instant was gliding swiftly over it toward the Barrill. The early sun glinted brightly on the gold lace of the personages seated in her stern as she approached.

“Officers!” exclaimed Stark.

“Of course,” rejoined the captain. “They are of the impression that they are on their way to pay a visit to an American vessel.”

“Well, if they actually were, they’d get a warm reception,” rejoined the middy. “Firing that gun was the nerviest thing I ever heard of.”

“You must recollect, senor,” put in the captain gently, “that the insurgent navy is not versed in naval etiquette.”

“It’s time they got a sharp lesson,” sniffed the middy.

There was little time for more conversation of any sort. The boat from the Calvo, a double-ended whale craft, ranged alongside, and the officers on board her stepped nimbly to the Barrill’s low decks, being aided on board by several sailors. Drawn up in hospitable array to receive them were Midshipman Stark and his companions. None of these could repress slight smiles as they noted the glances of astonishment the visitors bestowed on the dark-visaged crew. Evidently they were puzzling their minds over what such palpable South Americans were doing on board an American ship. The new arrivals, however, bowed politely, although they evidently had a dozen questions quivering on the tips of their tongues.

Without giving them time to speak, however, the Americans ushered them aft and below into the leather-upholstered cabin. Up to this time not a sign of Captain Gomez had been seen. Shortly, however, he was to make a dramatic entrance.

“You gentlemen will pardon my saying so,” began the officer, who evidently outranked the rest of the visitors, “but I could almost have sworn that this craft was the General Barrill of our—or rather formerly—of our navy.”

“Of our former navy, would have been a better way to put it,” thought Ned, carefully flicking an imaginary spot off his uniform to hide a smile. The reader has, of course, not forgotten that the Americans, when they made their dramatic entry on board the destroyer, were equipped with the uniforms of the officers of the craft, which they still wore. The golden stars—the number of which denoted rank—had, however, been ripped off. In all essentials the garments bore a close resemblance to our own naval uniform.

But it was easy to see, despite the fact that Midshipman Stark and the rest were palpably Americans, that the visitors were suspicious and uneasy.

“I say, gentlemen,” went on the other, “that the resemblance is extraordinary. Of course, your boat has four funnels, while ours had but three.”

“Good thing he didn’t take a notion to poke a finger into that fourth funnel,” thought Ned. “The paint is still wet, and that canvas is not really stretched tight enough.”

Suddenly one of the young officers from the Calvo, who had been looking about him, gave a sharp exclamation.

“Why, here is a cushion embroidered with the name of the General Barrill!” he cried in a puzzled voice, “and——”

The sharp voice of his superior cut in.

“There is some trick here. I call upon you to explain it at once, or——”

He halted in amazement. Four revolvers were covering himself and his officers, and from a door opening into a side stateroom suddenly stepped Captain Gomez himself. There was a look of mild triumph on his features as he emerged from the place of concealment, in which he had been posted to watch the progress of events.

“Captain Gomez!” gasped out the commander of the Calvo, for such was the rank of the other. “What does this mean, sir?”

“Are you a prisoner of these Americans?” gasped out another officer.

“No, gentlemen, but you are my prisoners,” replied the Costavezan captain calmly. “I advise you to submit to the fortunes of war with a good grace.”

“Trapped!” burst out the other officer. He gazed in front of him despairingly.

He was a brave man in his way. So were his officers. But the bravest men are not the most reckless, and he saw, by the grim look in his captor’s eyes, that a dash for the stairway between themselves and the deck would have been, under the circumstances, suicidal.

Suddenly a loud cheer disturbed the tense silence. It came from above.

“Hurray!”

“What was that?” gasped the insurgent captain.

“I rather think it was your boat going to the bottom. We thought it best to scuttle her,” rejoined Captain Gomez, with the same deadly calm. “You gentlemen will, therefore, have to be our guests for a time. I trust you will make yourselves at home. One thing, before we leave you to your own devices, however, I must request your weapons.”

There was no help for it, and with a very bad grace the captives unbuckled their swords and gave up their service revolvers.

“Chess, gentlemen, is an excellent game. It teaches the resources and stratagems of warfare. You will find the men and a board in a locker on the port side there. I should advise you to employ your leisure in studying the various methods of checkmating your opponent.”

As he spoke the captain gave a low bow and, followed by his officers—for such the Americans now were—made for the deck. The cabin door, which, of course, was of steel, with hermetically closing devices, was shut. Below were several impotently raging captives, who, as a matter of fact, had only their own gullibility to blame for the predicament.

“Now for the next move!” exclaimed Captain Gomez, as they once more gained the bridge. “We must get out of the range of the forts as soon as possible. We are not out of danger here.”

Way was put on the Barrill, and she was headed southward. The Calvo, deprived of her chief officers, lay motionless as she had hove to. No doubt, those on board were wondering what was the meaning of this new move.

“She will follow in a few minutes,” said the captain. “That will be time enough to fire on her.”

“Why not hurry her up a bit, sir?” inquired Ned.

“How, my lad?”

“By hoisting a signal to proceed after us.”

“Capital!” exclaimed Stark. “Stanley, will you set the signal?”

“Ay, ay, sir, and then I’m thinking I’d better be circulating among my gun crews. They look to be getting nervous.”

He spoke no more than the truth. Gazing down from the stumpy bridge, it was easy to see that the men of the Barrill’s crew were ill at ease. Their native officers, one of whom had drilled a hole through the bottom of the Calvo’s whale boat, were doing their best to keep them quiet, but the nearness of a naval engagement was evidently worrying them.

A few moments after Stanley reached the deck, however, a wonderful difference set in. The men dispersed to their posts, chatting and laughing as if they were about to take part in some pleasurable athletic contest.

By this time the signal to follow had been seen and lowered, and the Calvo obediently began to follow the Barrill seaward.

“Hooray. We’ll get her without firing a shot!” exclaimed Ned exultingly.

Indeed, it appeared as if such might be the case. The other ship was practically without officers, and, no doubt, those on board could be easily demoralized. Thus the two vessels proceeded for some miles. The Barrill had, in the meantime, taken in her deceptive ensign, and was now proceeding without colors. Possibly it was this fact that aroused the suspicions of the Calvo. Perhaps they noted the vanishment of the whale boat. At any rate, they set a fresh signal.

“Show your colors!”

“All right, we’ll do that,” snapped the middy. “I would advise, sir, that we set the flag of the republic.”

“Just what I was about to order, my boy. We’ll fight under our own colors or not at all.”

In a few seconds the Costavezan standard was floating astern of the destroyer. The wind whipped out its bright folds and displayed it plainly for all to see.

“I’d give a month’s pay to be on board the Calvo now and see what they are doing!” thought Ned.

Below Stanley was looking up expectantly.

“All ready when you are, sir,” he said, surveying his well-drilled gun crews, all at their posts.

“What’s the range?” inquired the captain, turning to Ned.

The boy bent over the instrument.

“Four thousand yards,” he announced.

“Let them close up a bit. We want to make this short and effective.”

The captain rang for reduced speed. The Calvo, on the contrary, came rushing on. It was a bad blunder on her part. As the range-finder showed her within 1,000 yards Ned glanced expectantly at the captain.

“Open fire with the bow-chasers!” came the order.

The next instant, from the bow of the Barrill, came two bright flashes. They were followed by two sharp reports. At the same instant, from the Calvo’s side, came similar spurts of bright flame. A mountain of spray arose close aboard the destroyer as the shells struck, but no damage was done. Through his glasses Ned could see that their first shots had also been ineffective. Both had fallen short of the insurgent vessel.

“Did we get ’em?” yelled up Herc from the lower deck, where, with Stanley, he was circulating everywhere among the nervous, high-strung crew.

Ned shook his head.

Suddenly a puff of brown smoke came from the side of the Calvo, and a sharp screech followed. The next instant Ned felt the Barrill quiver in every fiber. She had been struck. A strange feeling came into the boy’s mind. It was not nervousness, but a sort of dread for those under him. As the smoke and dust cleared away, he gazed back below him and saw fresh blood on the decks. Part of the rail lay shattered and riven, and one of the rapid-fire guns appeared to be damaged.

The touch of the captain’s hand on his shoulder steadied him. The absolute calm of the man was a tonic in itself.

“What is the range now?” he inquired in a cool, steady voice.

“Two thousand. We’ve been drawing away from them, sir,” rejoined Ned, studying his instrument. He turned to the middy, who had gone almost as pale as he had. This was no battle practice, but real war, with modern ships and modern guns. Would they come out of it alive?

As these thoughts coursed through his mind, Ned gazed about him, and the next moment gave a shout and pointed to call the attention of his officers to what he had observed.

Out of the north was approaching, at tremendous speed apparently, another vessel. It was one of the insurgent ships. The question was—which one? If it were the torpedo-equipped craft, the Bolivar, things could not be much worse.

---

The crew, appalled by the steel hail which now began to pour from the sides of the Calvo, became so demoralized at the crisis that heroic measures were necessary. Stanley and Herc drew their revolvers and forced the deserters back to their guns.

“I’ll throw the first man who leaves his post to the sharks!” yelled Herc, and, although they couldn’t understand what he said, the crew appeared to comprehend the import of his words. At any rate, they rallied, and began serving the guns once more.

Suddenly a loud cheer went up from the bridge of the Barrill. A black, gaping hole appeared in the foreworks of the Calvo, and two of her guns were silenced. This cheered them hugely. It meant that their fire was taking effect at last.

“Close in!” shouted Captain Gomez to the men at the wheel in the conning tower below.

The space between the two vessels began to close. Ned at once understood the meaning of these tactics. They were to demolish the Calvo before the other vessel, which was hastening to the rescue, arrived. Thus they would have only one foe to tackle at a time. For a space the two vessels jockeyed, but, deprived of officers as she was, the Calvo was no match for the tricky destroyer at this game. As he found his broadside fairly raking the other’s quarter, the Spanish-American captain gave the word. The range was about two thousand yards, and that tornado of steel was in position to do the most deadly work of which it was capable.

Before the few officers remaining on the Calvo could swing her bow on to avoid the full effect of the Barrill’s fire, Stanley and Herc received the signal from the bridge. As the tempest of shell took effect, the Calvo careened, till her underbody showed, and then staggered drunkenly back on an even keel. But she seemed water-logged, and began drifting down on the destroyer.

“Hooray! we’ve smashed her steam steering gear!” yelled Ned, half crazy with excitement.

But, crippled as she was, the Calvo could still fight. Suddenly two bright flashes showed at her midship section, and a couple of six-inch projectiles shrieked toward the Barrill. The bridge was carried half away before they could stir. Ned caught Midshipman Stark as the young officer was hurled back against him. Captain Gomez stood grimly at the engine-room telegraph, which, luckily, had not been carried away. Nor, by good fortune, had the range-finder and fire-control instruments.

At the same instant as the Calvo’s shell shrieked its way through one end of the destroyer’s little bridge the other missile from the same vessel carried away the canvas forward funnel. The little destroyer stood revealed in her true colors.

An instant’s glance served to show that the midshipman was not seriously wounded. A deep cut on his head from a steel splinter was his only injury. But it had temporarily disabled him, and two sailors carried him to the small cabin, in which the surgeon had established himself.

Ned now stood alone on the bridge by Captain Gomez. A thrill ran through the boy as he realized this. They were in a real battle, and he was actually second in command!

“Shall we let them have it again, sir?” he asked, as the shouts and cries of the terrified crew died out under Stanley’s persuasion and Herc’s reckless flourishing of his weapon.

“Yes, my boy. This time we’ll sink them, if possible. It will be in revenge for the terrible fright they gave me when I saw our brave young friend wounded.”

As the signal was transmitted, Stanley’s battery mingled its fire with Herc’s. This time the Calvo did not answer. Instead they could see that the greatest confusion prevailed on her decks.

“Give her some more!” shouted the captain.

But even as he spoke there resounded from the crippled ship a terrific explosion. She seemed to lift for half of her length upward out of the water, and then, in a shroud of dense, white vapor, she settled back.

“Her boilers have exploded!” shouted Ned, as he gazed with horror-stricken eyes on the tragedy.

“Lower the boats; we must save all we can!” exclaimed Captain Gomez. “Alas! my poor countrymen!”

The Calvo wavered only for an instant after the explosion, and then, with a dreadful roar and a furious hissing, she vanished amid clouds of white steam. As the vapor cleared away, all that remained on the surface to show her end were a few ash-streaked pools of grease, amid which human heads showed like black dots.

The Barrill steamed among the debris, and many a man owed his life to her heroic efforts. But hardly had the work of rescue terminated before the destroyer was called upon to face a fresh emergency. The other vessel was within four thousand yards, steaming furiously toward them.

“It is the Bolivar!” exclaimed Captain Gomez, as he gazed through his glasses.

For a flash hope almost died in Ned’s heart. The newcomer was the torpedo-equipped craft. As we know, of this class of weapon the Barrill had but four on board. What chance would she stand, crippled as she was, against this new enemy? Hastily Stanley and Herc were called to the bridge and the situation explained to them. It was decided to get the Barrill’s torpedo apparatus in order, and at least discharge all the Whiteheads she carried at the Bolivar—provided, that is, that the other vessel gave them a chance. On came the Bolivar, her officers apparently not the least dismayed by the fate that had overtaken the Calvo. The Barrill’s batteries opened fire on her at three thousand five hundred yards. The accuracy of Stanley and Herc’s fire halted her for a moment in the same manner as a ferocious bulldog pursuing a cat will halt, in a puzzled way, as her claws encounter his nose.

The hesitation was only for an instant, however, and then the craft began to swing.

“They are going to try a broadside!” exclaimed Captain Gomez, signaling “astern,” and swinging his vessel till her bow pointed at the other’s beam. It was an effective position, and gave the destroyer the advantage for the moment. Stanley, with his bow guns, took full advantage of it. He opened fire with his two rapid-fire weapons forward and succeeded in opening up several holes in the Bolivar’s bow.

But the insurgent vessel retaliated fearfully. Her steel projectiles ripped and tore the forward structure of the little Barrill, putting Stanley’s two bow-chasers out of commission, killing two of his men and, of course, driving them all from that part of the vessel. Fortunately, however, not one of all the rapidly fired missiles struck the Barrill below the water line, or in any vital spot.

The screech and hiss of projectiles were now incessant on both sides. About the Barrill the water shot upward in a hundred geysers as the steel rain roared about her. As fast as their gunners were killed or wounded, Herc and Stanley replaced them by men rescued from the sunken Calvo. The revolvers both Americans carried proved wonderful persuaders in driving them to the guns.

“Where are their torpedoes?” asked Ned anxiously, as, after ten minutes of this hot work, no sign of one of those deadly messengers of death had appeared.

There was no time for the silent, anxious figure beside him to reply.

A sudden puff of white smoke showed low down on the Bolivar’s bow. The sunlight glinted for a breath on white metal, and then came a splash. Ned grew pale and clutched the rail desperately as he realized that five hundred pounds of high explosive had been launched at the destroyer.

He wanted to shout out, but his lips refused obedience. All he could do was to keep his wide-opened, staring eyes fixed on the line of white air bubbles which marked the path of the approaching torpedo. But while Ned stood paralyzed, the Barrill’s commander had acted. He did the only thing possible to do. Skillfully he manœuvered his vessel till her sharp bow pointed toward the oncoming torpedo.

But even as she swung, it seemed to the watchers of the approaching steel tube that the Barrill must swing herself directly in the path of the messenger of death. By some subtle wireless telegraphy the news of the peril had already traversed the decks. White under their yellow skins, the frightened crew showed twitching faces and nervous, shaky hands. Even the revolvers of Stanley and Herc seemed powerless now to drive them to duty. In their fatalistic way they argued that death was upon them, and that it was no worse to be shot by a revolver than to be blown to atoms by a striking torpedo.

Ned, ashen to his lips, leaned forward above the shattered rail and watched through his glasses the approach of the Whitehead. It was running but a short distance under the surface, and once or twice he thought he could detect a shimmering flash as it shot through a wave. The bursting bubbles marking its way were clearly apparent. It could only be a few minutes now.

Fascinated, like one in a trance, the boy kept his eyes glued on it. Below him, on the decks, he could hear the shouts and screams and prayers as the thoroughly demoralized crew rushed about, leaping over the dead and the wounded, and then stopping short, baffled at the impossibility of escape.

The torpedo was now so close that a few seconds would decide all. Without realizing it, Ned gripped the rail and braced himself with his feet. Silently he waited for the terrific impact of the explosion he knew must come when the deadly point of the gun-cotton “war-head” plowed into the steel plates of the Barrill.

But death was not destined for them at that moment. With a flash of bright steel, a whirr of her tiny propellers and a white streak of foam, the awful menace swept by, missing her prey by a hand’s breadth. Ned felt sick and weak as he realized that the Whitehead had dashed close by and gone onward. Its mission of death had proved futile.

“Back to your posts, every one of you!”

Captain Gomez’s sharp voice cut the tense silence on the decks.

“You put them out of business this time!” yelled Stanley, “or they’ll let loose another of those, and blow us all to a dago heaven.”

“Can’t two play at that game, captain?” asked Ned, as the fire broke out afresh. “Why can’t we try a torpedo at them?”

“A good idea, my boy! Give the orders.”

Ned hailed Stanley in an interval of the fire and gave the necessary command. The torpedo was rigged in a stern tube, and the Barrill swung to deliver it. It was dangerous work. At any moment one of the enemy’s shots might have struck the “war-head” of the implement and blown them all to eternity. But by the same good fortune that had so far protected those on the bridge, Stanley and Herc managed to get the torpedo in the tube and the compressed-air connections made.

Ned snatched up a megaphone as the Barrill’s blunt counter swung till it was aimed at the leaden side of the converted yacht.

“Now, then, boys!” he cried at length.

Stanley took careful aim and released the catch.

There was a sharp hiss, as of outrushing steam, a splash, accompanied by a bright flash of whirring metal. The Whitehead was speeding on her errand of annihilation.

---

“Bo-o-om!”

As if some subtle dissolvent chemical had been suddenly applied to them, the stern works of the Bolivar appeared to melt away as the torpedo struck her. For an instant she floated on the surface—half a ship—steam and smoke pouring from her as the water rushed into her engine rooms. Then, with a wallowing motion, like a stricken bull sinking to its knees, she staggered and heeled partially over, exposing her keel.

Then, with the utmost deliberation—as if she were making up her mind to it, in fact—the Bolivar righted herself and began to crawl, like a stricken animal, toward the shore.

“They’ve closed her watertight bulkhead, sir!” called up the smoke-begrimed, half-naked Stanley. “They’re making for the shore to beach her. Shall I fire and finish her, sir?”

The captain’s eyes were filled with tears. Now that the strain of the fight against such odds was over, his emotional nature asserted itself. Ned saw that it was with great difficulty that he framed his words when he finally spoke.

“No, let them go,” he said, in a voice he strove in vain to render steady. “My unfortunate countrymen! how many of you have gone to your last accounting to-day?”

Ned could not help but respect Captain Gomez’s grief. It was the sorrowing of a brave man over a fallen enemy. He was glad that no order to complete the annihilation of the Bolivar had come. If the insurgents could beach her, they—those who were left alive—would have a chance to gain the shore. Ned felt sure that the ends of the republic had been met when they inflicted such a crushing blow on the mutinous vessels.

The first thing the Americans hastened to do, after cheering their victory in ringing tones, was to hasten below and see how the injured were faring. They found that Midshipman Stark, with a bandage about his head, was practically as well as ever, and bitterly disappointed over missing the “cream of the shindy,” as he expressed it. The other wounded were all doing well. Their dead numbered twenty—not a heavy loss, considering the sharp work they had been engaged in. But the poor Barrill was a melancholy sight. Her jury funnel was, of course, gone, and lay, a shapeless mass, on the decks. Her other stacks were riddled through and through with shells till they almost wobbled. Her conning tower was sadly battered and punctured, and her superstructure forward showed a great, gaping wound, received when Stanley’s two bow-chasers had fired their last shot.

While her officers stood amidships, soberly regarding the havoc, the chief engineer emerged from below, hastened up to the captain and drew him aside. In a low voice he imparted what was evidently grave news. What this information was the Dreadnought Boys soon learned. One of his aides had that moment reported to him that the condenser of the vessel had been so badly damaged by a shell that it was doubtful if she could proceed much farther. He could tinker it up for a few hours, he thought.

“Do so,” ordered the captain, a troubled look coming over his face. “In the meantime, my comrades—for such I must call you—let us have some luncheon, and discuss our next steps.”

“We do not wish to interfere with your plans, sir,” spoke up Midshipman Stark, who had been conferring with his men, “but if it is all the same to you, we should like to be put ashore as soon as possible.”

The captain looked disappointed.

“I was hoping to have you with me longer,” he said, “but I would not for the world thwart your inclinations.”

“It is not our inclination, sir, but our duty,” rejoined the middy. “We left our ship on an errand of confidence. We have so far been unavoidably detained, but now we wish to get back with all the speed possible.”

“I have it!” exclaimed the captain suddenly, “I will put you ashore at Los Olivos. It is not far from here. I do not know if the rebels have infested it, but even if they have I have powerful friends there who will provide you with horses and a means of getting safely into Boca del Sierras.”

This was good news for the young man-of-war’s men, who felt it incumbent on them to rejoin their ship as soon as possible. Even as things were, it was likely that news of their continued absence had been cabled home.

Luncheon was a peculiar meal. It was served from the scant stores of the Barrill, and the already depleted menu was not improved by the addition of the insurgent officers. They bore the news of their defeat with long countenances, but bravely enough put the best face possible on matters, and did not let their gloom interfere with the merriment of the others.

“I am going to propose the health of you four brave Americans,” whispered the captain, as the meal drew to a close.

“For Heaven’s sake, sir, do nothing of the sort, I beg,” whispered the middy, who sat next to him, and who, fortunately, had been the only one to catch his remark. “It might mean the loss of my commission and the ruin of the others.”

“What!” exclaimed the captain in amazement, but in a low voice, “you are never going to acknowledge the magnificent part you played to-day?”

“No, sir. We had much rather it would never be mentioned. These insurgent officers do not know who we are. The matter need never go further.”

“By the saints, you Americans are beyond me!” exclaimed the captain, “but, my dear young friend, of course the wishes of yourself or of your friends are sacred to me, and shall be obeyed.”

“Thank you,” said the middy simply.

The damaged condenser was repaired by the engine-room force sufficiently to allow the American party to be landed at Los Olivos that night. They were rowed ashore in plain clothes, borrowed from the friendly officers of the destroyer. Under the captain’s guidance they soon reached the home of his friends, a villa set back in magnificent grounds, on the outskirts of the little town. The officer’s acquaintances willingly agreed to aid the Americans.

A native guide was provided, and as soon as courtesy would permit, the Americans, who could ill conceal their impatience, started on their perilous journey. Owing to the wires being cut, no news of developments near to Boca del Sierras had filtered into the northern country. For all Midshipman Stark and his companions knew, they might find the insurgents in possession of the place. In that case they faced possibilities it was not pleasant to consider.

At last they were mounted, and, with their horses impatiently pawing the ground, as if as anxious to go forward as they were, they bade farewell to their emotional Latin friend, who almost broke down as the hour for parting came. He controlled himself bravely, however, although the squeeze of his hand he bestowed on each of the Americans bespoke his high regard for them.

“Good-by, sir, and good luck!” called back all of them, as they cantered out into darkness with their guide.

“Don’t forget to smash the De Barros if she pokes her nose out!” called Ned.

The De Barros, it will be recollected, was the only remaining vessel at Santa Anna, a small converted yacht. It was not likely that she would venture to try conclusions with the destroyer, which had proved herself such a terrible opponent, but if she did Captain Gomez meant to be ready for her.

On and on into the darkness cantered the Americans and their silent guide. About midnight the moon arose and showed them that they were traversing a rough, hilly country near the seacoast.

“We are not far from Miraflores,” said their guide, as he turned in his saddle.

Miraflores!

What memories the name recalled! How much had happened to each of them in the brief interval since their escape from the prison there! How much older each of them felt!

Villas began to appear now at long intervals, dotted back in the dense greenery clothing the hillsides. Coffee and banana plantations surrounded many of them, with the great, flat “barbecues” showing white in the moonlight.

Suddenly, as they rode along, Ned halted abruptly. The others drew rein as they noticed this.

“What’s the trouble?” asked the middy, “horse gone lame?”

“No, sir, but I thought I heard something.”

“An owl, most likely. Come on, we must be pressing forward.”

“No, sir, this wasn’t an owl. Hark! there it is again!”

From a villa some distance back from the road was the apparent source of the cries.

“It’s a call for help, sir!” exclaimed Stanley.

“A woman’s voice!” added Ned.

“Come on, boys,” shouted Stark, wheeling from the roadway, “we must see what is going forward up there.”

---

A dense belt of dark-leaved bananas separated the villa from the highway, along which they had been riding. Without bothering to find a pathway, the Americans swung their horses into the plantation and rode forward at a rattling gait among the bananas.

Owing probably to the softness of the ground, the sound of their approach was not audible within, and the cries increased as they drew nearer. Flinging their reins to the guide, whom nothing would have induced to join them, the Americans swung off their horses within a few yards of a lighted window, and ran forward.

The sight which met their eyes within the casement was one which did not make Ned’s amazed exclamation seem out of place.

“It’s Senorita Isabelle!” exclaimed Herc, as his eyes encountered the shrinking figure of a young woman in one corner of the lighted room. In front of her, with a drawn sword, was General de Guzman himself, his face convulsed with fury. In another corner of the place stood Charbonde and Hank Harkins holding back a venerable old lady, who appeared to have been on the point of precipitating herself upon the general.

“For the last time, girl, will you tell me where that will is?” demanded the infuriated general in Spanish.

“Never,” the girl bravely replied, “even though no one has heard my cries for help. I defy you to make me speak. The secret was imparted to me in confidence, and why should I tell you the whereabouts of the document? You only desire to possess yourself of it so that you may profit by wrongfully withholding our property.”

“Then I shall make you a prisoner. My troops are now at the gates of Boca del Sierras. To-morrow they will enter it in triumph. I shall make it my first business to recapture those Americans, and shoot them in front of your eyes.”

“Help! Help!” screamed the young woman, as the man advanced upon her.

“Scream all you wish to, my dear niece. There is nobody to hear you!” exclaimed de Guzman, with an evil leer.

The moment for revealing themselves had arrived. With a yell the Americans leaped the low sill of the open window and dashed into the room. A blow of Ned’s fist sent the general sprawling in a most undignified position into a corner of the room. Herc disposed of their old friend, Hank Harkins, while the impact of Stanley’s mighty fist sounded on the jaw of Chawedbones, as the sailor insisted on calling him. As for the girl, she seemed about to faint, but somehow Midshipman Stark’s arms happened to be convenient as she staggered back.

The naval men’s borrowed revolvers came in handy at that moment, for all the tormentors of the two women were armed. Under the menacing muzzles of the Americans’ pistols, however, they were speedily disarmed. In fact, their amazement at the sudden appearance of the quartette in that place, and in such an hour, had almost bereft the others of their senses. By de Guzman and by the others, who had witnessed the sinking of the boat in which the Americans were escaping, it had been confidently assumed that they were all dead. Of the part they had played against the insurgents in the last few hours de Guzman was, of course, unaware.

As for Senorita Isabelle and her mother, they were as dumfounded as the general and his worthy accomplices. After the first few minutes of silence, they began to stammer their thanks, but the midshipman and his companions hastily, yet politely, waved them aside.

“We are only too happy to have been in time,” said the middy, with a gallant bow, “but how did you happen to be placed in such a position?”

The girl looked embarrassed. The Americans understood that, brute as he was, de Guzman was still her relative, and she wished to say nothing against him. Her mother, however, broke into a storm of Spanish, aimed at her brother-in-law. She explained that, while they had been seated alone in the house that evening, their tormentors had made their appearance through the window. General de Guzman had heard from the soldiers who had guarded the prison at Miraflores of his niece’s visit to the dungeon. One of them who understood English had played eavesdropper, and, as soon as he had an opportunity, he had informed the general of what he had heard. He was unable to tell him of the location of the will, however, and for this the revolutionary leader had visited the hacienda, with a stern determination to find out its whereabouts. His threat to imprison the girl and her mother had been the climax to a stormy interview.

“And now, sir,” spoke up the general sullenly, “perhaps you will detain us no longer. This is a family affair, and——”

“You have been beaten at your own game,” put in Midshipman Stark.

The general glowered, but said nothing. Senorita Isabelle turned to the Americans.

“You will not keep him longer? I am certain that he will do us no more harm to-night.”

“Nor in the future,” spoke up Ned recklessly. “I’ll get the will for you to-morrow.”

A smile flitted across the general’s face.

“To-morrow things will have changed in Boca del Sierras,” he exclaimed. “I shall be in possession there.”

The Americans looked their astonishment, but thought it best to say nothing to betray their ignorance. The next moment the general renewed his request to be allowed to depart.

“What shall we do?” asked Stark, gazing at the others.

“Well, sir, as we are not combatants, I don’t see how we are to make him a prisoner of war,” said Ned.

“Neither do I. We shall have to let him go, I suppose.”

“And his pair of friends, too, sir?” asked Stanley, shaking his mighty fist at the cowering Hank Harkins.

“Yes, let them go, too. You have horses, general?”

“Yes,” rejoined the other sullenly.

“Good thing,” whispered Herc. “That means ours are safe.”

“You mean they would steal them?” asked Ned.

“In a minute. Those fellows would take pennies from a blind man.”

“I half believe even that about them, too,” laughed Ned, as the general, followed by the others, slunk out of the room. They had not received their weapons back, and none of the Americans had made it possible for them to ask for them. Presently the clatter of hoofs outside announced their departure.

The two women then began to question the Americans eagerly about their plans. They were dumfounded when told that the four meant to push on and join their ship.

“But, senors, that will be impossible,” declared the elder lady. “The insurgent forces are now surrounding the city. You cannot get through the lines.”

“The two armies have then united?” gasped the middy in consternation.

“Not yet, but they are expecting the vessels from Santa Anna to arrive to-morrow, and when the bombardment from the sea is begun the insurgents will seize that opportunity to unite their forces and sweep down upon the city from the hills.”

The recent officers of the General Barrill exchanged glances. They knew there would be no naval attack. If General de Guzman was depending on his blue-water allies his cause was tottering.

“Ah, I see you know something about that navy!” exclaimed the younger woman, who had recovered her usual vivacity. “Do tell us.”

“We are not at liberty to, senorita,” rejoined the middy. “All we can tell you is that a naval attack on the city will never take place.”

Seeing that there was some mystery in all this, the women refrained from further questions. A short time afterward, a noise outside announced that the loitering house servants had returned, and, much against their wills, the Americans were detained for refreshments. It was just before dawn when they set out once more, riding fast. They had a lot of ground to cover if they hoped to make the city of Boca del Sierras before the insurgents’ attack commenced.

They were all silent and preoccupied as they pressed forward. Ned and Herc thought over what might ensue if they were captured by the insurgent troops. Stanley was wishing for a pipe of tobacco, a luxury which he had not been able to indulge in for several days. The cigarettes of the Barrill he had refused with scorn. As for Midshipman Stark, his thoughts were mainly occupied by the slender figure of Senorita Isabelle. As they rode along, her face seemed always dancing just in front of him. Middies are among the most impressionable of mankind, and Mr. Stark was no exception to his class.

But the ruminations of all four were rudely shattered after they had ridden a short distance. They were now traversing a narrow plateau at the foot of some rugged mountains. It was from these hills that the new peril had manifested itself. As he gazed upward, their guide wheeled his horse and rode off for his life in the direction whence they had come.

A troop of horsemen was riding down the hillside rapidly toward them. There were evidently two hundred or more in the body. Suddenly their leader gave a shout. It was easily interpreted by the travelers as a signal to halt.

With very apprehensive feelings regarding what was to come, the Americans reined in. In the hands of the insurgents they knew their lives would not be worth a moment’s purchase.

---

But their apprehension was speedily relieved. Ned it was who first sighted, carried far back in the ranks of the approaching horsemen, the red, white and blue flag of the republic, with its golden star blazing on the central white band. Never had a flag seemed more welcome to them than this gaudy banner of a South American republic.

The leader of the troop, a young man whom they learned later was Colonel Julio Lazard, galloped up to them with a flourish. The Americans all saluted as he pulled up his horse, a fine, black steed, furnished with a high-peaked, chased-leather saddle and bridle, silver ornamented.

“Americans!” he exclaimed in fair English. “Gentlemen, this is a happy encounter.”

“It is for us!” exclaimed Herc, in a loud aside to Ned.

“We mistook you for a scouting party of the enemy, and were about to fire on you,” continued Colonel Lazard cheerfully.

“Phew! this impulsive Latin temperament again,” grinned Stanley, behind his hand, to the two boys.

In the meantime Midshipman Stark had been responding to the other’s salutations. These formalities concluded, Colonel Lazard informed them that he was at the head of the troops which had been repulsed some days previously by the insurgents. He and his staff officers had succeeded in rallying their men after a precipitate flight into the mountains, and were now advancing to take part in a daring dash to the relief of Boca del Sierras.

“The infantry and artillery have gone on ahead,” explained the colonel, “and my cavalry are bringing up the rear in order to guard against any flank attack by the enemy.”

“You think there is danger of Boca del Sierras falling?” inquired Midshipman Stark, after Colonel Lazard had explained this much to the adventurers.

“I fear that such a catastrophe is in grave danger of occurring,” was the rejoinder. “But with my brave troops——,” he continued grandiloquently.

“Just as if they hadn’t all taken to the tall timbers the last time they smelled powder,” whispered the incorrigible Herc.

“But with my brave troops,” went on the officer, who, of course, had not heard the remark, “we will save them if it is humanly possible to do so.”

“You do not think, then, that the insurgent army of the north has united with the other body of troops?” questioned Mr. Stark.

“No,” responded the officer, “and it will be our duty to see that they do not do so. Our scouts inform us, however, that the advance on the city is to be made before noon to-day, so that we have no time to lose. I must marshal my forces at the Hill of the Ten Saints.”

The Dreadnought Boys recalled, as he mentioned the name, the location he referred to. It was a small hill outside the city to the north, the value of which, as a strategic position, was at once apparent. Nestling close in under the mighty ramparts of the Sierras themselves, it commanded the northern approach to the city perfectly.

“The battle, if there is one, will resolve itself into a struggle for the possession of that hill,” explained the colonel. “The troops that arrive there first will win the day”—and his brow clouded—“unless the insurgent navy arrives and bombards the city from the sea.”

“Do not worry about that, sir,” Stark assured him. “The navy will not be there.”

“Indeed, you are in possession——”

“Of positive information.”

“Its source, senor?”

“That I cannot divulge. But I can assure you that the navy will not be there.”

The colonel looked at him curiously.

“You will pardon my seeming curiosity, sir, but who or what are you and your companions?”

It will be recollected that the Americans were in plain clothes. Dust-covered and travel-stained as they were, they might have indeed excited curiosity in anybody who had espied them traveling among the war-ridden hills.

For a second the midshipman hesitated, and then compromised by saying:

“You will not misunderstand our motives, sir, when I assure you that it is from no evil intent that I cannot tell you everything about us. Suffice it to say that we are Americans traveling in the country on business—I think I may add, important business. It is essential that we should be in Boca del Sierras to-day, and for that reason we are traversing this road.”

“I appreciate what you say, senor,” rejoined the colonel. “I respect and admire all Americans. They are the government’s friends. If you wish you may travel with us. We are on the eve of a great battle. By accepting our escort you will have a chance to see what the troops of the republic can accomplish.”

The offer was naturally accepted with thanks by the midshipman on behalf of the party, and a few minutes later the cavalcade moved forward. They shortly diverged from the main road and struck off upon a narrow trail. So narrow was it that the troopers were compelled to ride in single file in some parts of it. A thick growth of brush screened it perfectly from the view of any one below them—between the mountains and the sea, that is—so that, strategically considered, the colonel had chosen a splendid route for moving his troops.

It was shortly before noon, and the sun blazed hotly down, when they reached a spot where the trail converged into the main road. A few rods beyond the ground sloped upward toward the summit of the Hill of the Ten Saints.

“Forward!” shouted the colonel, as he saw that the coveted elevation was untenanted. “We are the first to arrive.”

But even as he spoke the bushes surrounding the junction of the road and the trail became alive with men, and a raking fire was poured into the cavalry. The insurgents had prepared an ambush, into which Colonel Lazard’s cavalry had walked like so many flies into the spider’s web.

For an instant all was confusion. Near to Ned a horse fell to the ground, kicking and struggling in its death agony. Bullets whistled by him, and all about arose the clashing and cries of conflict. The troopers wavered and seemed to be about to seek safety in flight.

“Your carbines!” shrieked the cavalry officers.

They spurred their horses hither and thither, in the crush of panic-stricken horses and men, striking their followers with the flats of their swords and fairly driving them into the conflict. After a few moments of this frenzied work, the horsemen rallied a little and poured back an answering fire from their carbines. Their cordite-driven bullets did sharp execution in the insurgent ranks, and the ambuscade, having done its work, began to give way, falling back on the main lines of the insurgent troops.

Then came a breathing spell, but the Americans knew as well as the government officers that it was the lull before the storm. General de Guzman was far too tricky a campaigner to have massed all his strength on that one blow.

“Where are your infantry and artillery?” asked the middy, who, with the others, had remained at the colonel’s side in the skirmish.

“I do not know,” began the colonel, distractedly looking about him. “If they do not arrive soon, we are lost. We dare not move forward without their fire to cover our advance.”

As he spoke there came from below a bugle call, which the Americans recognized as the “advance.” In many South American armies the bugle calls are the same as ours, and the Republic of Costaveza was no exception.

“They have disobeyed my orders!” exclaimed Colonel Lazard furiously. “They have taken the lower road.”

To understand what is to follow, it is necessary to comprehend that, at this stage of the engagement, the government cavalry were massed at the junction of the mountain trail and the main road. To the north, on the main road, were the insurgents, with their machine guns. On a lower road still was the government infantry and artillery. It afterward transpired that they had been compelled to take that route to avoid falling into the rear guard of the insurgents. Straight ahead on the main road lay the Hill of the Ten Saints, but it was commanded from the main road by the guns of the insurgents.

Situated as were Colonel Lazard’s infantry and artillery,—without which latter he could not hope to hold the hill, even if he gained it,—they could not be communicated with in regard to the situation. It became necessary, then, to send a scout across to them to inform them of conditions, so that a concentrated advance might be begun.

The colonel issued a call for volunteers, but of all that body of men not one would risk crossing the main road. Commanded as it was by the insurgent artillery, it did, indeed, seem to be a fatal mission. The Americans began to chafe and fidget. If Colonel Lazard did not soon make a decisive move, the insurgents would begin the advance, in which case the key to the situation would be theirs. With the rebels in control of the city and the approaches, every one of the party from the Beale realized that their chance of rejoining their ship would be remote in the extreme. A drum-head court-martial would be the best they could expect, if their part in the sinking of the Bolivar and the Manueal Calvo were ever known.

A short distance beyond their present situation Ned’s sharp eyes had already noted a dip in the road. It was but a slight depression, to be sure, but into the boy’s mind had suddenly come the idea that it could be utilized. Brush grew close up to it on both sides, so that it would be possible to approach it without being observed from the north. The dip, or so Ned believed, was deep enough to hide the form of any one crawling across. Riding to the side of the midshipman, he confided his bold plan to him. It was nothing more nor less than to dismount and attempt to cross the gun-commanded road by the dip. At first Stark shook his head.

“I cannot permit it, Strong. It is far too risky. I am your officer, and would be responsible for you if anything happened.”

“But I don’t believe anything will happen, sir,” exclaimed Ned. “If I did I would not risk it.”

“Hum,” pondered the middy, “it’s certain that something has to be done. None of these cowards here will make a move, and if the artillery isn’t on that hill within the next few moments it’s ‘good-by,’ republic.”

“Then I can try it, sir?” asked Ned joyously.

“It is against my judgment, but—well, yes, but for Heaven’s sake be careful.”

“You can depend upon that, sir,” rejoined Ned.

He slipped from his horse and crept off into the undergrowth before any of Lazard’s cowardly command realized what he was about. Throwing himself flat on his stomach, the boy wormed his way forward through the brush till he reached a point which, he concluded, must be about opposite the dip in the road.

Cautiously he raised his head and saw, to his joy, that only a few yards now separated him from his coveted depression. His heart began to beat thick and fast. Ned knew well that the road which he must cross was commanded from above by the insurgent guns. If the dip were not as deep as he calculated—if it would not keep him hidden—he would be shot down like a dog.

“Now for it,” he whispered to himself, lying flat once more and wriggling forward, as before.

Suddenly he stopped dead and listened intently. He had heard a sound in the brush behind him.

As he listened the sound came again, sharp and crackling. Somebody was evidently approaching him and using the utmost caution in doing so. After the first sharp crackling of the broken stems, he heard no more.

Ned reached back and drew his revolver. Then, crouching on his knees behind a close-growing bush, he waited the coming of his trailer.

---

Hardly daring to draw a breath, and with his heart pounding against his ribs as if it would break them, Ned waited. It was overpoweringly hot in the brush. The sweat dribbled from his forehead and rolled down his nose, itching it in maddening fashion, but he did not dare to move a hand to mop his brow. A moment of inattention, he felt, might cost him his life.

Suddenly the crackling was repeated, this time close at hand. Ned could not repress a start, and as his frame twitched nervously the brush directly in front of him parted. To his astonishment, something red was thrust through. In the sudden relief to his feelings, Ned almost burst into a roar of laughter, for the rubicund object quickly revealed itself as Herc’s scarlet thatch. The former farm boy raised a red, dripping face, and gazed inquiringly about him, his countenance framed oddly in the dusty brush.

“I’ll swear I heard something,” he muttered.

“And you did, too,” whispered Ned, in a cautious tone, but one which carried.

“Ned——” almost shouted Herc.

“Hush, you red-headed Indian! do you want to bring the insurgent army down on us?

“What on earth are you doing here?” demanded Ned, as Herc drew closer.

“Why, I saw you slip from your horse, and I guessed you were going to do something risky. I couldn’t help it, Ned, I had to be with you.”

“But, Herc, this is a dangerous errand. It may mean death.”

“I know that,” rejoined Herc simply. “That’s the reason I came—so that I could be with you in case of trouble.”

“Herc, you are a brick!” exclaimed Ned, his voice shaken with real feeling. He reached out and clasped the Dreadnought Boy’s hand.

“We’re in this thing together now,” he went on.

“And we’ll see it through together.”

“You bet. Now, come on.”

Forward crept the two boys. In a few minutes they gained the edge of the declivity, through which they hoped to crawl, unseen by the insurgent gunners. Without a word, for it was not a situation which any words would fit, they emerged from the friendly cover of the brush, and began crawling along the bottom of the dusty dip. It seemed terribly shallow, now that they were in it, and, flat as they stretched themselves, Ned felt that they must look as big as elephants.

“Reminds me of the time I played in a show at the village hall,” whispered Herc, as they crawled through the dust. “I felt like I was the only thing on the stage.”

In times of great physical risk the mind sometimes remains almost dormant during the most dangerous part of the performance. So it was that, almost without knowing it, the Dreadnought Boys crossed the dip in the road and emerged unscratched in the government lines.

They were rudely recalled to themselves, however, by a sharp voice almost in their ears. Looking up, they saw a dark-skinned soldier, in a shabby uniform standing over them. His bayonet was fixed, and he looked formidable.

“What did he say?” whispered Herc.

“Something like ‘Speak, or I’ll shoot,’” rejoined Ned, holding up one hand in token that it was empty.

“Americanos,” he said.

The soldier seemed to comprehend, and nodded. Beckoning, he led the Dreadnought Boys through a thick grove to where a group of officers stood chatting.

“You’d think they were going to play tennis to look at them!” exclaimed Herc.

“Yes, if Colonel Lazard is worrying, they are not,” agreed Ned.

Fortunately the leader of the halted government infantry and artillery spoke English, so that Ned was able to explain to him his errand. Many and loud were the congratulations the Americans received on their bravery in daring to cross the road. Such a deed was, in fact, beyond the comprehension of the Costavezans, brave enough though some of them were.

Ned noted with satisfaction that fully twenty machine guns and a good-sized body of infantry were scattered about under the trees. Their commanding officer explained coolly enough that he had ordered a halt till he heard from Colonel Lazard.

“But suppose he could not have communicated with you?” asked Ned.

“Then,” said the officer, with a shrug, “we should have had to remain here.”

“Nice sort of soldiers,” thought Ned.

But now that they had definite orders to advance on the hill, the troops became animated enough. In five minutes the guns were ready to be rushed into position, and the infantry was so arranged as to surround the precious implements of warfare and protect them.

Ned’s blood thrilled as the advance was sounded. That what was to come would be real warfare he had no doubt.

As the government troops advanced up the road, the expected happened. From the insurgent guns to the north a raking fire opened. The infantry surrounding the guns replied, but their fire was half-hearted. In fact, there was no object in wasting time and ammunition in retaliating. To gain the hill in the speediest possible time was the object of the dash.

“This is warm work, Herc!” exclaimed Ned, as they stumbled forward with the troops. Beside the Dreadnought Boy one of the infantrymen had just fallen, badly wounded. Ned picked him up and placed him on a gun carriage.

General de Guzman had been completely taken by surprise by the sudden move of the government troops. He had been depending on his guns to prevent communication between the two bodies, and thus hamper them till the expected ships arrived in the harbor below. The booming of their guns he intended to make the signal for his advance. Suddenly, from the harbor, there sounded a loud report.

Boom!

Its echoes clashed back against the hills. Ned and Herc looked seaward surprised. They were still more surprised when they saw, making for the harbor entrance, two vessels. One of them they recognized even at that distance as the Barrill. The other they guessed to be the De Barros.

“Hooray! Captain Gomez made good!” exclaimed Ned. “I’ll bet he’s got a prize crew on the De Barros now.”

And so it afterward proved. The plucky captain had made a night sortie on Santa Anna, lured the De Barros seaward, and, after a brief engagement, forced her surrender. Then, placing a prize crew on board, he started for Boca del Sierras. The gun they had heard was his salute of triumph. But de Guzman mistook the report for the approach of the insurgent navy, and at once gave orders to advance. His position was screened from a sight of the sea, so that his eyes had not fallen on the same spectacle as had the boys. Otherwise the command might never have been given.

Under a raking fire from the advancing insurgents, the hill was gained at last. The guns were soon rushed to the summit. As they gained it, to the westward of the town firing began. Another small hill in that direction burst into smoke and flame. The heavy booming of the guns was distinctly borne to their ears.

The other section of the insurgent army was taking up the attack at that point. A short distance from the hill, de Guzman, seeing that it was impossible for him to cut off the government artillery, halted his troops. As a means of harassing the enemy by every means possible, he ordered a raking fire on the gunners, as they began to operate the machine guns. Man after man was mowed down as he worked at the guns. It began to look as if, after all, the Hill of the Ten Saints might become the scene of a disastrous rout. The native troopers, easily influenced by a turn of luck one way or the other, began to waver. Ned could see that it only needed a little more to throw them into a complete panic. Revolver in hand, he rushed up to the gunners, urging them to their work. From the boxes he seized, with his own hands, the long bands of ammunition—six hundred shots to a band—and fed them into the breeches of the guns.

“Now, pull the triggers,” he shouted.

From one or two of the guns a raking fire opened, but even as it started it was stopped by de Guzman’s sharpshooters.

“We’ve got to dislodge those fellows from that position!” exclaimed Ned to the native commander. The other nodded.

“But our guns, senor. We must protect them. If the insurgents seize them, we should be powerless.”

“You leave me the artillery to look after,” exclaimed the boy excitedly, “and take your infantry round on de Guzman’s flank. That will give me a chance to get this battery in shape.”

The officer nodded. He saw and understood Ned’s strategy. It was, in fact, the one chance they had of holding the position.

“They’re throwing up trenches!” exclaimed Herc suddenly, pointing down the road.

Ned followed the direction Herc indicated, and saw that de Guzman’s men were, indeed, busy in erecting earthworks.

“If they get them up they’ll dislodge us from here in half an hour!” shouted the boy.

All the time their “sappers” were at work on their trenches, the insurgents kept up a steady fire on the hill. The infantry had departed, on their mission to divert this steady hail, some minutes before. Would they attack the insurgent flank before it was too late and the trenches completed?

Herc and Ned worked like demons, driving the men to the guns. But the natives’ courage, never of the strongest quality, was waning fast. Moreover, the Dreadnought Boys knew that occasionally in those countries whole regiments had been known to give up and go over to the enemy if the day was going against them.

Suddenly, however, below them a sharp barking of rifles broke out to the left, or to seaward.

“Hooray! It’s the infantry!” shouted Ned.

Immediately the fire on the guns slackened, while the insurgents turned to face this new attack.

The moment had arrived.

“Tell them to get to those guns,” he shouted to a native officer.

With shouts, threats and execrations the men were finally driven to the machine weapons. The rapid fire that resulted as they manipulated the firing levers seemed to give them new heart. They broke into wild cheers as the concentrated fire of the battery poured into the half completed trenches of the insurgents.

“Hooray! Let ’em have it!” yelled Herc, as he saw the insurgents begin to waver.

Filled now with foolhardy bravery, the government troops began to leap into the line of the insurgent fire, capering and shouting exultingly. Several lost their lives in this way before the boy could check them.

Suddenly there came the sound of hoofs behind them. The boys turned, to face a young officer.

“Who is in command of this battery?” he demanded.

As nobody answered, Ned assumed the responsibility.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I have ridden over from the other hill to find out,” explained the officer. “We are driving back the insurgents there, and were threatened with them on this flank when your magnificent fire turned them. Your name, senor?”

Luckily a desperate charge by the insurgents obviated the necessity of Ned’s replying at that instant. Led by de Guzman himself, the insurrectos swept forward in a desperate effort to capture the hill by main force. But the guns were too much for them. Half way to the foot of the hill their ranks wavered and broke. The advance turned suddenly into a wild, demoralized rush for safety. But nowhere could they find it. Attacked on the left flank by the infantry, and on the rear by Colonel Lazard’s cavalry, the insurgents were driven back toward the mountains, dozens being killed in the rout.

The victory for the government troops was complete and final. Yet, had it not been for the Americans, there might have been another tale to tell.

“Let’s get out of this!” exclaimed Ned to Herc, as the ranks of the insurgents broke and fled. “There’s no more work for us here.”

“And that dago is eying us as if he’d like to take us prisoners,” remarked Herc, gazing sidewise at the young horseman who had demanded their names.

In the confusion they slipped off unobserved, making their way toward the city. On every hand they passed excited people. The news of the complete rout of the insurgents had spread broadcast. The insurrectos had been beaten back on the west, as well as at the Hill of the Ten Saints. The day was saved for the Costavezan government and for the Americans holding concessions under it.

“What about the midshipman and Stanley?” asked Herc, as they hurried along toward the town and entered its scattering suburbs.

“Mr. Stark said that if we were separated we were to meet at the office of the American consul,” said Ned. “We’ll head for there.”

Rapidly the two Dreadnought Boys made their way along through the excited crowds, not one of whom dreamed of the part the two lads had played in what was actually the decisive engagement of the day. For, had de Guzman’s troops gained the hill and captured the guns, they must have swept the city.

At last they entered the narrow street on which the consulate stood, and Ned burst into a joyous cry.

“Look at that, Herc!” he cried, pointing.

“That” was the American flag floating above the door of the consulate. Both Dreadnought Boys came to “attention,” clicked their heels together and saluted. Then they hastened forward. But as they were entering the portal, they received a sudden check.

Lieutenant Timmons was just hurrying out. The Dreadnought Boys almost collided with him.

The officer started as if he had seen a couple of ghosts. In truth, the boys’ appearance was startling. Half ragged, powder-stained and bleeding from some minor cuts, they looked as if they had been in a desperate engagement, as, indeed, we know they had.

“Great heavens! where did you come from?” exclaimed the officer, as the Dreadnought Boys drew themselves up and saluted.

“From the Hill of the Ten Saints, sir!” exclaimed Ned, with a twinkle in his eye.

“What, where that brave stand against the enemy was made? Are you the two Americans whom every one is talking about? Great Heavens! come inside at once——”

From the officer’s tone there was evidently something more than praise coming to them. Nobody realized better than Ned that their rash acts on the hill might result seriously. Of one thing he was glad. They had not worn the United States uniform when they played their part in the government army.

As, with these mingled emotions, they turned to follow their officer, a sudden clatter resounded up the street, and two horsemen appeared. They were Midshipman Stark and Stanley.

Lieutenant Timmons gave a half-humorous groan as he saw them.

“Thank Heaven, you are alive!” he exclaimed, “but how on earth am I going to explain all this?”

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For an hour or more the consul and the naval officer sat spellbound as the four—for they each had a part to tell—related their adventures since they left the destroyer.

“We gave you up for dead!” exclaimed the lieutenant, as they concluded. “In fact, to-day I was about to send cables home concerning you.”

“But you didn’t, sir?” asked Midshipman Stark anxiously.

“No, I did not, you young scamp. I don’t know, though, but that you deserve it.”

But Colonel Thompson, the consul, was delighted.

“Great Scott! Mr. Timmons!” he exclaimed, “it’s capital, sir, capital. These boys are of the real American stuff. They should be promoted, sir, every one of them.”

“Unfortunately,” said the officer, “their services have been such as cannot be mentioned in the dispatches. At Washington they would not understand. But, at any rate, I have a pleasant surprise for those two boys.”

He indicated Ned and Herc. Our boys colored with pleasure and anticipation at his tone. Eagerly they watched him as he drew from his uniform pocket two folded papers, one of which he handed to each.

They were the long-awaited official confirmations of their promotions. No wonder the boys’ eyes shone as they regarded their superior officer. Their hearts were too full for words, but they looked their thanks. It was Ned who found his voice first.

“Thank—you, sir,” he stammered, “I—we——”

“There, don’t try to make speeches, Strong. You are too good a fighter for that,” laughed the officer. “I expect to see both of you rise far higher than this in the service.”

“If it depends on us, sir, we will,” Ned assured him.

“By the way,” broke in the consul, “about that document in which this young man is interested?”

“Oh, yes, that will. Well, Strong, as I gather from your story, you have found the young woman to whom it belongs. I had better turn it over to you.”

It was finally decided, however, to leave the document with the consul till the legal formalities, insuring Senorita de Guzman and her mother their rights, could be completed.

It may be of interest to our readers to know that the next day it was Midshipman Stark who obtained leave and volunteered to ride to the hacienda with the good news.

Suddenly, while they still sat talking, the door was thrown open and a wild figure burst in. With a cry of surprise, the Dreadnought Boys recognized Hank Harkins.

“I claim the protection of the American consul! I am an American,” he began crying and groveling on the floor. Hardly had the words left his lips before some government soldiers entered. Addressing the consul, their leader explained that Hank had been detected fleeing from the insurgent ranks before the Hill of the Ten Saints, and was wanted as a prisoner.

“They’ll shoot me!” screamed Hank miserably. “Save me! Save me!”

Suddenly he noticed the Dreadnought Boys, and appealed frenziedly to them.

“Don’t let them take me,” he cried.

Ned briefly explained to the consul who the groveling wretch was, and then Colonel Thompson, who had some influence with the president of Costaveza, agreed to take charge of Hank. With this assurance the soldiers left the room. But Hank still sobbed convulsively. He had spent the hours of the battle crouched behind a tree, but the savage fighting had terrified him. When it was all over, he tried to sneak into the town unseen, but already the government troops had been told to watch for him, as well as for Charbonde.

“Where is Charbonde?” asked Ned sternly of the cringing creature.

“Dead,” wailed Hank. “He fell, shot in the back, as he was running toward me.”

“A fitting death,” remarked Lieutenant Timmons. “Do you know anything of de Guzman’s whereabouts?”

“No,” Hank declared. He added that he had seen the general in retreat with some of his officers, but had lost sight of him.

It was afterward learned that de Guzman, after seeking shelter with a relative on the other side of the island for a time, finally escaped to Paris, where he now lives—an outcast and almost a beggar. As for Hank, he was ultimately given up to justice, but, on the pleas of the consul, escaped being shot. He was deported from the country, and was speedily lost sight of. And Jim Prentice? He was found missing one day, and doubtless deserted the service he disgraced.

Little more remains to be told. The next day the boys were astonished by the arrival of several big battleships in the harbor, the squadron being in command of their old commander, Captain Dunham. It appeared that the squadron had been cruising in West Indian waters, but had been ordered by cable to proceed to Costaveza, when the government became convinced of the seriousness of the situation. In some mysterious way Captain Dunham soon learned the eventful history of the boys in Costaveza, and they were sent for by him to relate the whole story. Their former commander roared with laughter and astonishment by turns as they related their experiences, but finally his face grew grave.

“You boys acted for the best,” he said, “and I admire you for what you did. But the pity of it is your pluck and bravery can never become known. However, if you care to be appointed by me to some special work, I think I have some ahead for you in the near future.”

With kindling eyes the boys thanked him.

The next day they had leave ashore, and spent it in walking about the city, recalling the eventful things that had happened to them in its vicinity. Suddenly Ned was almost suffocated by an arm being thrown about his neck, and a bristly face being pressed to his.

“Ah, my brave, I salute you!” exclaimed a voice in his ear.

It was little Captain Gomez. Drawing the boys into a sheltered eating-place, he ordered cooling refreshments, and then related to them all over again how they had captured the insurgent navy, ending with the information that he was to be made Minister of Marine for his services in the revolution.

“But I owe it all to you!” he exclaimed warmly. “To you and your brave comrades.”

“But don’t ever tell any one so,” laughed Ned.

The fleet remained in the harbor for three days more, during which time Midshipman Stark’s leave was much occupied with visits to the hacienda of Senorita de Guzman and her mother. On one occasion the boys and their faithful comrade, Stanley, accompanied him, and received—much to their embarrassment—the warm thanks and embraces of the two women for their part in the rehabilitation of their fortunes.

One bright morning an orderly stepped up to Lieutenant Timmons and reported that the expected signal for getting under way was about to be set on the vessel of the commanding officer of the division.

An hour later the American squadron steamed slowly seaward, out of the landlocked harbor of the turbulent republic. Seaward with them for many miles came the General Barrill, firing furious salutes at every knot. Captain Gomez was saying farewell.

“Well, there is good-by to a stirring chapter in our lives, Herc,” said Ned, as the hazy outline of the Costavezan coast grew dimmer, and finally dissolved into the sky line.

Herc nodded. For once the red-headed youth was devoid of words.

For some time the boys stood silent, gazing westward, where lay the vanished shore. Then Stanley came up behind them, and together the three began to talk over once more the subject of which they never tired—their adventures ashore and on board a destroyer.

But, although none of the three realized it, more stirring experiences than any they had yet known lay ahead of them. In the future both Ned and Herc and their rugged companion were to be participants in many thrilling scenes and perilous adventures. What these were must be kept for the telling in another volume of this series: The Dreadnought Boys on a Submarine.

THE END.

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