Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 27/Number 4/Shadows Tremendous/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V.
IN THE NICK OF TIME.
THE honorable passengers, they like jamberry sauce with beef?” piped the Jap, in his treble voice. “I ask to know. Just now, tasking in galley, I find him large jug. I am beswitched to know if he belong as sauce or better in pie.”
“Er—make it into—er—pie, Sudo.” Darrell hesitated, his hands closing tighter over the paper. “We like it a—better that way, I reckon.”
“I thank honorable gentleman with glad feel of heart,” chirped Sudo, ducking his head again. “I go to inform miserable cook right smartly.”
With another smile and bob, he pattered on along the deck, and presently disappeared in the direction of the galley. As the tail of his neat white jacket vanished, Bellamy turned swiftly on his friend, who was furtively restoring the crumpled paper to his pocket. “What the dickens” he began.
“Merely a little experiment.” Darrell smiled. “I grow more and more curious about our soft-footed friend every minute.”
Bellamy stared. “Afraid I don't get you. What's Sudo's part in this little one-act drama you've just been starring in?”
Darrell chuckled. “I'd call it a problem play,” he said, smiling. Then his face grew more serious. “It's just this, Jack: Somebody aboard has been spying on us. You know that. Well, that same industrious individual has also investigated my bag, and discovered the so-called secret compartment. There wasn't anything in it, but I'm naturally a trifle curious to find out who's showing such flattering interest in our affairs, and this fooling of mine is simply a stall to keep that interest warm.”
“And you think it's Sudo?” ejaculated Bellamy. “Oh, come now, Dal! Why, he's nothing but a round-faced kid. You must be mistaken.”
“Must I?” Darrell shrugged. “Take my word for it, Jack, he's not half so young or half so innocent as he seems. Besides, you mustn't forget that he's a Japanese.”
Even then Bellamy was not more than half convinced. “I still don't see how you've proved anything,” he protested.
“I haven't,” returned the secret-service agent. “That was only the first act. We will now proceed to set the stage for the second.”
He arose, and, followed by the puzzled Californian, led the way to their cabin. When the door was closed, he drew the folded paper from his pocket, and smoothed it out.
“Of course, you understand that this is supposed to be an accurate copy of a treasure map,” he remarked, in a half-jocular tone, which held in it an undercurrent of seriousness. “We must have a fairly plausible excuse for landing at Magdalena, and this is the best I've been able to dope out. There are countless rumors floating around of pirate hoards buried all along the desolate coast of Lower California—the estimable Billy Boote is responsible for that train of thought, I suppose—and I fancy we can carry out the part well enough for our purpose. That, however, is in the future. The map is in the nature of bait, and if I don't manage to catch the mouse, at least I may puzzle him 'right smartly,' as he puts it.”
Lifting the bag, he opened it, and, pushing aside the contents, found the hidden compartment, and slipped the paper within. He had scarcely done so, when, without the slightest warning, the cabin door was suddenly thrust open, and Billy Boote, the blazing bandanna awry over one ear, stood on the threshold, seeming to fix both men and the bag with the baleful glare of his single eye.
For a second even Darrell was struck speechless by the audacity of the proceeding. It seemed impossible that the man who heretofore had shown so palpable a dislike for their society could have any other motive in appearing now save spying, and the secret-service agent's face darkened as he snapped the bag shut and dropped it to the floor.
“You've certainly got your nerve with you!” he said, staring at the fellow with narrowing eyes.
“No offense, mates,” growled Boote; “no offense. I jest come to see if you had a drop o' rum handy, or any other spirruts. I'm sick, mates, very sick, an' that's a fact. The swab of a cap'n wouldn't gimme a drop o' grog—hang him!—an' there ain't another blessed thing as does me a mite o' good.”
His tone was whining, and, as Darrell searched his face keenly, his own cleared a bit.
“By Jove, Boote,” he exclaimed interestedly, “you're positively green! I'll be hanged if you don't look seasick!”
The one-eyed ruffian glared fiercely. “Seasick!” he rasped resentfully. “Me—seasick! Why, you common sw—er—matie, I sh'u'd say, do I look like a landlubber? Didn't I go to sea afore you was born? Ain't I doubled the Horn more times than you could count on your fingers an' toes? Typhoons, hurricanes, tornadoes don't mean no more to me than the little zepher as is blowin' this minute. Seasick? Bah! It's the rotten salt horse in the fo'castle, as ain't fit to dump in a pigsty. That's what's troublin' me inwards, an' if you got a drop o' somethin' strong to spare me”
He wiped his mouth with an expressive gesture which brought a twinkle to Darrell's eyes and made him step over to the locker in which he had tucked. away his pocket flask. The secret agent had pulled it half open when suddenly he caught sight of a gray shape streaking across the floor close to one wall, and like a flash he stooped and snatched up a shoe.
“Shut the door, Jack—quick!” he cried. “There's that blamed rat again. We'll get him this time, sure.”
The slam of the door was drowned by a petrifying yell from Boote. With a single amazing leap, he cleared the space to the lower berth, clutched the edge of the upper in his great, spreading fingers, and hauled himself up with a nimbleness astonishing in one so handicapped.
“Kill him!” he cried frantically, his teeth chattering. “Open the door, and let him out. Do somethin', why don't you? Don't let the devil get up here!”
Bellamy was so amazed at this extraordinary outburst that he allowed the rat to slip past him and take refuge under the berths, whereupon Boote fairly squealed with terror. A moment later, however, the rodent was driven into the open, and Darrell popped him over with a well-aimed blow from the shoe. Even then Boote refused to descend from his perch.
“Are you sure he's dead?” he quavered, peering over the edge of the berth, his ugly face white and drawn, and beads of sweat standing out on his low forehead.
“Of course he is.” The secret-service agent picked up the creature by the tail, and tossed it out of the open port. “What are you scared about, anyhow? It's only a rat.”
Still shaking nervously, the one-armed man crawled slowly down from his perch, and clutched the flask Darrell handed him. He poured out a drink, and a long gurgle followed, after which he seemed restored to some semblance of his usual self.
“Ah-h!” he growled. “That's the real article, that is.” He glanced at Darrell, shaking his head solemnly. “Ye say only a rat, matie,” he went on, in a reproachful tone. “If you'd seen what I've seen, such words would never pass your lips. Them devils are the only critters on land or sea that I'm scart of, an' with good reason. Twenty years or more ago a mate o' mine—Joe Blunt by name, a fine, upstanding lad as you ever clapped your ridin' lights on—fired his boot at a rat in the fo'castle o' the Mary Jane brig. He only stunned it, an' went an' picked it up. It bit him, mate, right here betwixt the thumb an' forefinger.” He shuddered. “In half an hour his arm was swole up bigger'n his leg. In less'n that time more he was bloated all over, an' purple. I kin see him now. He died screamin', Sharks I don't mind; snakes is nothin'; but from that day the sight of a rat curdles the blood in me veins.”
In his agitation, he poured another long drink out of the flask, which almost emptied it, growled out his thanks huskily, and lurched from the cabin, casting furtive glances to right and left in the corridor.
“Pleasant story,” commented Bellamy, with a slight shudder. “Do you s'pose it's true?”
“Sounds a bit fishy,” shrugged the secret-service agent. “He tells it well, though, and I suppose it's within the bounds of possibility. Rats have carried the plague before, though an hour is a rather quick finish. I wonder whether it was really a desire for rum which brought him here, or something else.”
“He looked sick, all right,” Bellamy said doubtfully. “Do you believe he was faking?”
“Hard to tell,” replied Darrell. “Well, having baited the trap, let's give the mouse a chance.”
It lacked only a few minutes to dinner time, so they did not trouble to go on deck until the meal was over. As he arose from the table, Darrell produced an old magazine he had unearthed, and announced his intention of spending the afternoon in its perusal. Carmen languidly suggested that he read aloud, and the three trooped out on deck to settle themselves comfortably in the shade of the bridge.
Five minutes later the secret-service agent discovered that he had no handkerchief, and left the others for a moment to get one. Though the table was only partly cleared, there was no sign of Sudo in the mess room. Darrell passed on to the corridor, and hurried straight for his cabin, making no sound in his rubber-soled shoes.
At the door he paused for an instant, fingers hovering over the knob. The next second he had thrust it open, and a faint breath of satisfaction passed his lips.
The little Jap stood near the port, the bag at his feet, in his hands the decoy treasure map.