As his glance flitted to a small cloisonne jar near his hand, he suddenly found that the room had turned black. Suffocated, choked, he stepped backward. He knew on the instant that a soft black scarf had dropped over his head.
Even as his arms instinctively flew upward, two great hands pinned them to his sides. The soft wool fabric drew tight about his face. It cut off his cries. A low chuckle came to his muffled ears. He kicked his feet; he struggled frantically; his teeth bit into the smothering cloth.
"Shut up, you!" a hoarse voice hissed in his ear.
He felt himself lifted and carried through a narrow doorway. That voice! It was vaguely familiar. Hawkes? Impossible; he was on the Araby. Red Mitchell's? He squirmed in impotent rage.
He fell, struggling and trussed as he was, on to a sofa.
"Yas, sah; he's a reg'lar little fightin' cock, he is!"
The words of the Negro made Tod's anger rise. His moving legs were grasped, and he felt a stout cord drawn about them. He was helpless, a prisoner.
He heard a low conversation in the room. What were they saying? What did they mean to do to him? Hawkes, of course, was back of this. What did he fear from the mess boy? Did he know that Tod was close to the secrets of the European-Pacific Company? Was the trail of Neil Moran closing in?
Tod's heart was beating in his ears like the thud of a ship's engine. He opened his lips to speak, and found that his mouth was dry and parched. "What are you doing to me?" he managed to whisper.
A sibilant murmur came back in the smooth tongue of the merchant. "You stay here, two hours, three hours—that is all."
Tod squirmed. "I'll inform the police!"
A low laugh greeted his words. "This is not Balboa; this city is under Panamanian jurisdiction. I tell them you came after dope. Oh, they know you sailors well. They will not believe you. You lose your ship—that's all."
"By golly, you got your nerve!"
"Yes? You can get another ship back to Frisco. You should not interfere with the doings of men, my boy. You are an unsuspecting fool."
Tod trembled. What a blunderer he was! So interested had he been in his opportunity to get ashore that he had played into the stacked hand of the mate. Doubtless, Red Mitchell, if it were he, was now hurrying back to Balboa in Tod's Ford. His thoughts rose in a bitter wave and engulfed him.
Silence in the room now. Someone was there, however; he could hear the faint sound of breathing.
"Let me out," he whispered. "Let me out!"
He thought he detected a movement in the room.
Footfalls approached him. "What you do, senor?" whispered the voice of the San Bias Indian boy. "Why they kick you—like they kick me?"
Tod's heart leaped. Here was sympathy; here was a friend. He whispered through the enveloping cloth: "They hate me. They want me to starve here in Panama. I must get back to my ship. Let me out."
He heard the boy shudder. "They keel me if I do, senor. You 'Merican boy. They treat 'Merican boys like that, too?"
"No, not all. Let me out, Jose," he entreated. "I'll pay you well."
"No—no! They keel me; they keel me!" He relapsed into silence.
Tod heard a fly buzzing in the room. He lay exhausted, thinking, pondering. Jarvis would never know what had happened to him. He had vanished from the ship without a word of explanation; the Araby would steam on through the Canal and hit the Atlantic swells with Marseilles weeks ahead. And somewhere in the French seaport he might have found trace of Neil!
He turned over on his side. His arms ached; his head throbbed; he was almost suffocated by the cloth. How long had he been there? It seemed an hour; but it could not have been more than twenty minutes. A soft sound stiffened him into attention. The door to the shop closed gently.
A hand touched his arm. "Listen, senor," said the Indian boy in his ear. "I one big fool to stay in Panama. My father live in Yaviso on the Chucunaque River; he bring cocoa nuts to Panama sometimes. I run away—stay here. Nombre de Dios, what a fool a boy can be, senor!"
"It's true," grunted Tod.
"Listen, senor. I let you go—you gimme money to get home?"
"By golly, yes! All I got. Four dollars, I think."
"It is enough. I make it on that. Quiet!"
Tod heard him go to the door again. He returned. "Woo is busy with English gentleman. The big Black gone. Quick, I let you loose."
His hands dug into the rope. Tod felt his legs loosened. His stifling cloth was released, and he glanced about the dim room while the broad-faced Indian boy unbound his arms. He stood up, swayed for a second, and grasped a table for support.
"Quick, senor. We go this way."
He led the way out a small door to the rear. Tod found himself in a narrow alley that allowed room for only one to pass at a time. The Indian showed his straight black hair as he turned down a crooked lane and, in a steady trot, made for a street far ahead. They came out panting into a market-place at the water's edge. Cries of fish vendors surrounded them; people jostled them; the air was warm but delicious; the sea shone blue in the sunlight.
"We'll get a jitney," Tod jerked out. "We'll both go to Balboa. I can make the boat and you can go on to San Bias."
They discovered a driver calling for passengers for his little car. "To Balboa," Tod cried. "Quick."
They jumped within. The motor chugged, the gears ground, and they swung through the traffic to the right.
The ride seemed endless to the boy as he sat peering ahead for sight of the Balboa docks. Would the Araby be there? Was he a fool to try to board her? Wouldn't Mr. Hawkes try worse methods next time? Yes; but he would be on the lookout now. He must get aboard.
They drew up at the docks. Tod tossed the fare to the man, who immediately asked for more. The boy paid no attention.
"Here, Jose, this is all I've got. Almost three dollars."
"Thanks, senor. This a lucky day for me. Adios."
Tod raced round the buildings, where the glare of the sun was almost blinding. As his glance swept across the dockside, his heart sank.
The berth was empty. The Araby had gone.
CHAPTER V
TO COLON! TO COLON!
LEFT behind! Penniless—and more than three thousand miles from home. Stunned by the thought, Tod gazed blankly across the dockside. Where was the Araby? Was she even now nosing her way into the Caribbean? He pressed his fingers into his palms and looked round. A figure caught his eye. Crossing toward the office buildings was a young man in blue trousers and shirt and wearing an engineer's cap on the back of his head.
Tod hurried toward him. "Did you see a tramp steamer leave this dock?" he queried.
"That rusty tub? Sure—she pulled out less than an hour ago."
The expression of anguish that swept across the boy's face seemed to rivet the man's attention. "What's wrong?" he said cheerily. "Left behind?"
Speechless, Tod nodded.
"That's rotten luck. You can probably catch her, though, by taking the train to Colon." He passed on into the office.
The railroad! Yes; he might make it yet. But he had no money. He went forward to the edge of the wharf where the blinding sunlight dazzled his sight. He must get aboard the Araby. Could he appeal to the port authorities to advance him enough to get to the Atlantic side? Must he beg?
Presently, he noticed the engineer walking toward the wharf again. Tod saw that he was heading for a long oil tanker moored some distance down the docks. On a run Tod started after him.
"Are you going through to Cristobal?" The question came, smothered, from his lips.
The man turned and surveyed him. "Sure. But aren't you going by train?"