Part 20 (1/2)

After the first confusion pa.s.sed from my mind I could pretty easily figure out the probable incidents that had brought my cousin down here.

I knew about how long it had taken the steams.h.i.+p to voyage from her home port. Had my letters been delivered in Bolderhead within reasonable time, my mother and Ham, and the others must have been aware of the explanation of my absence a week or two previous to the sailing of the Peveril from Boston.

I had told Mr. Hounsditch, our lawyer, the whole truth about my sloop being swept away; I had likewise advised Ham Mayberry to gather what evidence he could against my cousin and those who had helped him commit the outrage that had placed me in such peril. It was a cinch that Paul had got wind of these discoveries, had been fearful of being arrested for his part in the crime, and had run away from home.

In doing so, too, it was evident that his father, Mr. Chester Downes, had not been a party to his escape. Paul had slipped away without his father's help or knowledge of his going. Otherwise Paul would not have been in a moneyless state, and he must have been moneyless before he would have gone to work. Paul didn't love work, I knew; and I could imagine that there was no fun connected with the job he seemed to have annexed aboard the Peveril.

I reckoned I should probably hear all about it when I went to the consul's office at Buenos Ayres. Either my mother, or Ham, would write me the particulars of Paul's running away from home. The Bayne Liner was no mailboat; I expected that my letters had been awaiting me for some time at the port; and the money could have been cabled nearly a month before this date.

Well, we got into Buenos Ayres in good season, and I noted where the Peveril was docked. We moored outside a raft of small sailing crafts and had the d.i.c.kens of a time taking Ben Gibson ash.o.r.e on his mattress. A couple of blacks helped us, and after sending in a telephone message to the hospital, a very modern and up-to-date motor ambulance came down and whisked us all off to that inst.i.tution. I couldn't speak Spanish, nor could Ben; but those medicos could talk English after a fas.h.i.+on, and soon Ben was fixed fine in a private room and the doctors declared he'd be fit as a fiddle in six weeks.

Then it was up to old Tom and me to find a place to camp. The sailor was for going back to the sloop where board and lodging wouldn't cost us much; but I confess I was hungry for something more civilized. I wanted bed-sheets and ham and eggs for breakfast--or whatever the Buenos Ayres equivalent was for those viands!

We made some inquiries--of course along the water-front--and found a decent sailors' boarding house kept by a withered old Mestizo woman (the Mestizoes are the native population of Argentina) who had some idea of cleanliness and could cook beans and fish in more ways than you could shake a stick at; only, as Tom objected very soon, all her culinary results tasted alike because of the pepper!

It was after breakfast the morning following our arrival that Tom uttered this criticism. We were on our way to the hospital. We found Ben feeling ”bully” as he weakly told us, when we were allowed to go up to his private room. Captain Rogers had given him drafts on a local banker and he was fixed _right_ at that hospital. The doctors had examined him again and p.r.o.nounced him coming on fine. So, with my mind at rest about him, I tacked away for the little dobe building down toward the water-front which at that day flew the American flag from the staff upon its roof.

It was a busy place and most of the clerks I saw were Mestizoes, or Spaniards, or the several shades of color between the two races. Spanish seemed to be spoken for the most part; but finally a man came out of a rear office and asked me abruptly what I wanted.

”I'd like to see Mr. Hefferan,” I said.

”He's busy. Can't see him. What do you want?” snapped this man.

”I'm an American, and I'd like to see him,” I began, but the fellow, who had been looking me over pretty scornfully broke in:

”That's impossible, I tell you. Tell me what you want? Had trouble with your captain? Overstayed your leave? Or have you just got out of jail?”

Now, I hadn't thought before this just how disreputable I looked. I was dressed in the slops I had got out of the Scarboro's chest, was barefooted, and was burned almost as black as any negro--where the skin showed, at least. I couldn't much blame this whippersnapper of a consul's clerk for thinking me a tough subject.

”None of those things fit my case, Mister,” I said, mildly. ”I know I don't look handsome, but I've been on a whaling bark for several months and I haven't had time yet to tog up.”

”A whales.h.i.+p?” he asked. ”An American whales.h.i.+p?”

”Yes, sir,” said I.

”There is none in port.”

”No, sir. I have been with the Scarboro. I'm mighty sure she's not in port.”

”The Scarboro?” he asked me with a sudden queer look coming into his face. ”You're one of the crew of the Scarboro?”

”Not exactly one of her crew. But she picked me up adrift and I have been with her until lately.”

”You come in here,” said the clerk, slowly, motioning me into the room behind him. And when we were in there he motioned me to a seat and sat down himself in front of me. ”Let's hear your yarn,” he said.

I thought it was rather strange he should be so interested, and likewise that he should stare at me so all the time I was talking. But I gave him a pretty good account of my adventures from the time I was blown out of Bolderhead Harbor, finis.h.i.+ng with how I came to be at Buenos Ayres without the bark herself being within six or seven hundred miles of the port.

”So that's your yarn, is it?” he asked me grimly, when I was done.

I stared at him in turn. To tell the truth, I was getting a little warm.

His face showed nothing like good-humor and friendliness. I waited to see what it meant.