The girl’s face lighted up as she listened. Once in a while she interrupted the torrent of words pouring! from Pedro’s lips to put in a question, then subsided and let the torrent flow on.
For five minutes, perhaps, Pedro talked and gesticulated. At the end of that time he pulled off his tattered hat, extracted a scrap of folded paper from the crown and handed it to the girl. Then, with a quick, low-spoken “Adios!” he vanished into the forest.
As soon as he was safely away, Ysabel turned toward the bushes where the boys had been concealed and clapped her hands.
“Come!” she called; “I have something to tell you.”
Bob and Dick hurried to join her.
“What’s it about?” asked Dick eagerly.
“It’s about your friends, of whom you were telling me when Pedro came. They have been captured——”
“I must say there’s nothing pleasing about that!”
“Didn’t you expect it?” the girl asked. “You knew70 something must have happened to them when they failed to return to the boat.”
“Yes, we expected it, but I think both of us had a hope that they had merely been pursued into the wood and were working their way back to the Grampus.”
“The men General Pitou had set to watch the path from the Purgatoire were the ones who captured them. Mr. Jordan had time to fire just one shot before they were seized, but that bullet wounded a captain, one of the general’s best men. Pedro says General Pitou is very angry, and that he is going to keep all the prisoners and not release them until the United States government gives up my father.”
“The government will never do that,” said Bob. “Our country is too big to be bullied by a handful of rebels, ’way down here in Central America.”
“Then General Pitou says the prisoners will all be killed.”
There was little doubt in Bob’s mind but that this irresponsible rebel general would be reckless enough to carry out his threat.
“Oh, but we’ve made a mess of this, all right,” growled Dick. “We come down here to rescue Coleman, and, instead of doing that, we leave Jordan, Speake, and Tirzal in the enemy’s hands. A nice run of luck this is!”
Bob was equally cast down.
“Tirzal is to be shot as a spy,” went on Ysabel.
“Poor chap! But what could you expect? I hope the president of this two-by-twice republic will capture every man-jack of the rebels and hang every last one of them! That’s what they’re entitled to, from General Pitou down.”
“Did Pedro have anything to say about us?” inquired Bob.
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“That’s where the good part of it comes in,” went on the girl. “The rebels think you’re in the woods, somewhere to the north of the path. All the general’s force, excepting about twenty-five armed men who are guarding the prisoners at the encampment, are hunting through the timber in the hope of catching you. Fingal is helping in the search, and vows he will make you pay dearly for the part you played in the capture of my father.”
“I fail to see anything pleasant in all this, even yet,” continued Dick. “I thought you said that here was where the good part comes in?”
“Can’t you see?” cried the girl. “If all the rebels, outside the encampment, are looking for you in the timber the other side of the path, why, that leaves the way clear to the submarine. We can go there, right off, and get away from General Pitou and his men.”
There was a short silence after this. Bob and Dick were both turning the subject over in their minds. When their eyes sought each other, dogged determination could be read in each glance.
“As you say, Ysabel,” said Bob, “we have an opportunity to get back to the submarine, but we can’t go and leave our friends behind us.”
“You—can’t go?” breathed the girl, staring at Bob as though she scarcely understood his words. “Why can’t you go?” she went on, almost fiercely. “Your friends are captured, and how can you hope to get them away from twenty-five armed men? Don’t be so foolish! Get away while you can—pretty soon it will be too late, and if you are caught you will be shot.”
“What’s in that handkerchief, Ysabel?” queried Dick, pointing to the parcel Pedro had placed on the ground near the water jar.
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“Food,” said the girl curtly. “Eat it, if you want to. I’m not hungry.”
She was in a temper because Bob and Dick would not hurry away to the submarine. She could not understand why they should delay their flight when it was manifestly impossible for them to be of any help to their captured friends. As if to further emphasize her displeasure, she turned her back on the boys.
Dick stared at her, and then swerved an amused glance upon his chum.
“Didn’t Pedro give you a note, Ysabel?” asked Bob gently.
“Yes. It was from Coleman. He managed to write it and give it to Pedro for me. It is mine.”
“Suppose you read it? Perhaps there is something in it that is important.”
Ysabel partly turned and threw the note on the ground at Bob’s feet.
“You can read it,” she said.
Bob picked up the scrap and opened it out. It was written in lead pencil, on the back of an old envelope, and read as follows:
“I hope you can get away some time to-day in that pitpan Pedro was telling you about. If you can do that, you can help all the prisoners now in General Pitou’s hands. Some time soon we are to be taken down the Izaral halfway to Port Livingstone, where the rebels have another camp which they consider safer than this one. We will all go in the gasoline launch which was stolen, early this morning, by Fingal and Cassidy. Tell this to the customs officer at Port Livingstone, and ask him to do his best to intercept the launch and help us. I cannot write more—I have not time.”
“That’s nice, I must say!” muttered Dick deject73edly. “If the old cutthroat, Pitou, has his prisoners taken farther back in the jungle, there’ll be no possibility of rescuing them. We’re on the reefs now, for sure.”
Bob turned to Ysabel. Her anger was passing as quickly as it had mounted, and she seemed anxious to meet any question Bob should ask her.
“When Fingal and Cassidy came up the river in the gasoline launch,” said Bob, “did they turn into the Purgatoire branch?”
“No. Pedro said that they went on up the Izaral, and got across to the encampment by another road through the woods.”
“Then, if the prisoners are brought down in the launch they’ll have to pass the mouth of the Purgatoire?”
“Yes.”
“Dick,” said Bob, “there’s a chance that we can do something to that boat load of prisoners.”
“What?” queried Dick, pricking up his ears.
“We can go back to the submarine, drop down the Purgatoire and wait there, submerged, until the gasoline launch comes down.”
“Then what?” asked Dick.
“Then we’ll do whatever we can. There’ll be five of us on the submarine, and I don’t see why we couldn’t accomplish something.”
But Dick shook his head. “You don’t know,” said he, “that Coleman’s information is correct. It’s hardly likely that Pitou would tell the secret to one of his prisoners.”
“Coleman may have found it out in some other way than from General Pitou.”
“Well, the launch may already have dropped down the river.”
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“Hardly, I think, when most of the rebels are out looking for us. There’s a chance, Dick.”
“One chance in ten, I should say.”
“That’s better than no chance at all, which seems to be what we have here.”
“We’ve worse than no chance at all, out in this scrub with the rebel army looking for us. If we’re caught, we’ll be done browner than a kippered herring. Although I haven’t much hope, I’m for making a quick slant in the direction of the Grampus.”
“Then you’re going to the submarine?” asked Ysabel joyfully.
“Yes, and we’d better start at once while the coast seems to be clear.”
The girl clapped her hands and started for the timber.
“Do you want this?” asked Dick, lifting the bundle from beside the water jar.
“No, it’s only food—my dinner that Pedro brought me. You have plenty on the submarine, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Bob laughed.
“Then hang that to a tree branch for Pedro. Probably he robbed himself to help me. He’ll come back and get it.”
Dick twisted the knots of the handkerchief into the end of a branch and they all started hurriedly back toward the path.
The difficulties of the way made it necessary for them to travel in single file. Bob went ahead, Ysabel followed him, and Dick brought up the rear.
In ten minutes they were back in the path and hurrying swiftly in the direction of the Purgatoire. But ill luck was still following them, like an evil specter. They had not gone far along the course before a rebel soldier sprang from the timber into the path at Bob’s side.
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The surprise was mutual, and, for an instant, Bob and the negro stared at each other. Fortunately the negro had no firearms. He drew his machete, but before he could aim a stroke with it, Bob had leaped forward and struck his arm a fierce blow with the butt of Jordan’s revolver.
A yell of pain fell from the negro’s lips, his arm dropped at his side, and he jumped backward into the woods.
“Quick!” shouted Bob to those behind. “There may be others with him, and we’ll have to make a dash for the Grampus. Run on ahead, Dick, and get the submarine up and close to the bank. I’ll follow you with Ysabel.”
Dick would have demurred at this arrangement, but a chorus of wild yells, issuing from the wood, proved that the negro had spread the alarm.
“The boat will be ready for you,” shouted Dick, as he passed like a streak along the path.
Seizing the girl’s arm, and keeping the revolver in hand, Bob started on as rapidly as the girl could go.