Plotting in Pirate Seas | Page 4

the tracery of leaves overhead, talking aloud so that the sound of his own voice might make his discoveries clearer.
"The way I get it," he mused, "Father's on the trail of some plot against the United States. This plot is breaking loose, here, in Haiti. This Manuel Polliovo's in it, and so is a negro General, Cesar Leborge. There's a third, but the papers don't say who he is.
"Now," he went on, "I've two things to do. I've got to find Father and I've got to find out this plot. Which comes first?"
He rolled over and consulted one or two of the papers.
"Looks like something big," he muttered, kicking his heels meditatively. "I wonder what Father would say I ought to do?"
At the thought, he whirled over and up into a sitting posture.
"If it's dangerous to the U. S.," he said, "that's got to come first. And I don't worry about Father. He can get out of any fix without me."
The glow of his deep-hearted patriotism began to burn in the boy's eyes. He sat rigid, his whole body concentrated in thought.
"If Manuel Polliovo has captured Father," he said aloud, at last, "it must have been because Father was shadowing him. That means that Manuel doesn't want to be shadowed. That means I've got to shadow him. But how?"
The problem was not an easy one. It was obvious that Stuart could not sleuth this Cuban, Manuel, without an instant guess being made of his identity, for white boys were rare in Haiti. If only he were not white. If only----
Stuart thumped on the ground in his excitement.
Why could he not stain his skin coffee-color, like a Haitian boy? If sufficiently ragged, he might be able to pass without suspicion. It might be only for a day or two, for Stuart was sure that his father would appear again on the scene very soon.
This much, at least, he had decided. No one was going to plot against his country if he could help it. There was not much that he could do, but at least he could shadow one of the conspirators, and what he found out might be useful to his father.
This determination reached, the boy hunted for some wild fruit to stay his appetite--he had nothing to eat since the night before--and settled down for the rest of the afternoon to try and dig out the meaning of his father's papers, some of which seemed so clear, while to others he had no clew. It was characteristic of the boy that, once this idea of menace to the United States had got into his head, the thought of personal danger never crossed his mind. The slightly built boy, small even for his age, the first sight of whom would have suggested a serious high-school student rather than a sleuth, possessed the cool ferocity of a ferret when that one love--his love of country--was aroused.
His first step was clear. As soon as it was dark enough to cover his movements, he would go to the house of one of his father's friends, a little place built among the ruins of Cap Haitien, where they had stayed two or three times before. From references in some of the letters, Stuart gathered that his father had confidence in this man, though he was a Haitian negro.
As soon as the shadows grew deep enough, Stuart made his way through the half-grown jungle foliage--the place had been a prosperous plantation during French occupation--and, a couple of hours later, using by-paths and avoiding the town, he came to this negro's house. He tapped at the same window on which his father had tapped, when they had come to Cap Haitien a week or so before, and Leon, the negro, opened the door.
"But, it is you, Yes!" he cried, using the Haitian idiom with its perpetual recurrence of "Yes" and "No," and went on, "and where is Monsieur your father?"
"I don't know," answered Stuart, speaking in English, which he knew Leon understood, though he did not speak it. "I have missed him."
"But where, and but how?" queried Leon, suddenly greatly excited. "Was he already going up to the Citadel?"
Stuart's face flushed with reflected excitement, but his eyes held the negro's steadily. Leon knew more than the boy had expected he would know.
"No," he replied, "I don't think so. I shall have to go."
"It is impossible, impossible, Yes!" cried Leon, throwing up his hands in protest. "I told Monsieur your father that it was impossible for him. And for you----"
A graphic shrug completed the sentence.
Stuart felt a sinking at the pit of his stomach, for he was no braver than most boys. But the twist of his determination held him up.
"Leon," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though he felt it sounded a little choked,