HE 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!”