"I'm broke."
"The deuce you are!" He meditated a moment. "Well, if you think there's a chance of overtaking your ship, you can go through with us. I'm the third. Come on."
Tod followed. They crossed to the dock where the tanker was making ready for her departure. He made out her name on the stern: the West Corinto of San Francisco. The engineer said over his shoulder: "Keep close to me and walk along as if you belonged—see?"
Up the gangway they went to the superstructure amidships. Here Tod glimpsed the officers' quarters. They turned aft and went across a spidery bridge that hung over the steel deck with its innumerable hatchways. The black funnel climbing up so dose to the stern seemed strange and out of place.
"Better stay aft, kid," the third said genially. "The officers for'ard won't notice you here. When we tie up at Cristobal you can slip ashore. See you later."
Tod passed the firemen's quarters and climbed to the deck above, where, abaft the funnel, he was partially screened by the lifeboats. Everything was painted and polished with meticulous care, certainly in every respect unlike the woebegone aspect of his own tramp freighter.
Presently the tremor of the ship's propeller informed him that they were getting under way. Slowly the West Corinto drew out into the stream and headed north. Docks and warehouses and huge machine shops slipped by. Tod peered ahead. There was no sign of the Araby. By this time, doubtless, she had passed through the locks that lifted her to the bridge of water high above, and was slowly churning through the Canal toward Gatun.
The tanker must have gone nearly six miles before the river-like shores swung to the left and gave him a glimpse of the first set of locks, their white concrete sides shining in the sunlight.
The third engineer joined him at the deck's edge. "Miraflores," he explained. "Been through before?"
"No; and it doesn't look as I expected. Where's the Canal?"
The man grinned. "Old Culebra Cut is the only real canal part; the rest is either river or lake or bay." He pointed ahead to small electric locomotives that stood waiting on the concrete docksides. "See those four little goats? They pull us through the locks." He grunted sarcastically. "The powers that be don't trust a ship's engines here."
Ahead lay two long slips of water shining between gigantic parallel walls of concrete. As the tanker drew into the one on the right, a lumber schooner came slowly from the other slip. Tod perceived that a double system of titanic stairs allowed one ship to rise without interference while another ship dropped down to sea level. The beetle-like locomotives, two on each side, now put forth long lines fore and aft. Deliberately they advanced, swung up the inclines to the level above, and drew the tanker through the open gateway into the first lock.
Above the puny ship towered colossal concrete walls. Gradually, the steel gates of stupendous size closed behind them. The ship seemed to lie at the bottom of an immense oblong well. The soft wash of water against the plates of the tanker made Tod glance downward. He started. Great gushers of bubbling water stirred the surface into little rippling waves. Quietly, almost imperceptibly, the ship began to rise.
"The first step," chuckled the young engineer. "Some stairs, eh?" There was an air of proud satisfaction about him as he pointed out the giant mechanism of the lock. "We did it, kid—after the French had failed. Every time I go through this Canal, I forget all my doubts about old Uncle Sammy. If he can do this, he can do anything—if he'll only get down to brass tacks and throw his everlasting red tape overboard."
The water now had risen so that the tanker was thrusting her funnel above the sides of the lock. Graceful concrete light poles came into view; next, the red-tiled tops of the watch towers; and last, the small electric mules. Then they were once more above the glittering pavement, and the immense steel gates before them were swinging open.
"The next step. We might see your ship above."
Again the locomotives dragged the tanker into the level water of the next lock; the gates closed behind; and again the ship climbed slowly up the massive walls. The gates ahead now opened into a wide stretch of water.
"These two steps lead to the Miraflores Lake. A mile and a half ahead we hit old Peter McGill."
The locomotives were soon left behind and the tanker carefully shoved her way through the placid waters of the lake. Tod strained his eyes toward the opposite shore line. No tramp steamer was visible, however. Only a white motor ship passed them, making for the Pacific side.
"Diesels," the third said laconically. "That's what they're all coming to some of these days. The Swedes and the Danes clung to their sailing ships so long that they found the steamers of other nations carrying their cargoes. They learned their lesson; now they lead the world in the use of motor ships. God, they're beautiful things! I wish I were engineer on one."
Fifty minutes later, the tanker had passed through the Pedro Miguel Lock and was steaming quietly between the palisades of twisting Gaillard Cut, that immense slice through the hills which had threatened by its slides to make the Panama Canal only a vision.
"Do you think the Araby is far ahead?" Tod asked.
The third puffed lazily on his pipe. "It takes an hour and a half to get from Gatun Lake down the locks to sea level. She's not there yet. We may overtake her in the locks."
How the minutes dragged their weary way down the afternoon! If the tanker could only put on full speed ahead, instead of this snail-like progress bound by rules of the Zone. Tod stretched himself in the shade of a lifeboat, watching the tropical shore slip past.
The Rio Chagres widened to a lake; the encroaching jungle crept down to the very water's edge; clusters of vivid orchids shone against the green. Between enchanted islands of waving fronds, the tanker steadily steamed on the route marked out by the buoys and lighthouses.
Tod, peering eagerly ahead, saw only a white heron flying gracefully toward the distant shore line.
Turning northwest, the route spread out across Gatun Lake, surrounded by gently sloping hills of green. Innumerable islands were passed; here and there a tree stuck its wintry branches out of the water. The great dam at Gatun, in flooding the jungle valley, had drowned the vegetation; only remnants of the forest were left to thrust their stricken tops above the surface, dying thus that man might carry his ships across the mountains.
Tod ate supper with the third in the engineers' mess room. The food, he noticed, was infinitely better than any furnished by the larder of the European-Pacific Company. When they came out into the short twilight, the tanker was entering the first of the three mammoth locks which were to drop them down tc sea level again. Going forward to the forecastle deck they saw far below them the silver ribbon of the Canal running out to meet the sea. Tod caught his breath sharply. It was strange thus to be standing aboard a ship looking down upon the ocean as though they were resting on a mountain-top. A ship was rising in the middle lock on the left. Another was just leaving the lower lock on the right and starting for Cristobal.
About him the tropic night was closing down, but even in the distant twilight Tod made out the familiar outlines. His heart leaped toward the dawning stars. The Araby!
"There she is!" he cried. "My ship."
"You may make her, then," the third conceded.
They saw far below them the silver ribbon of the Canal running out to meet the sea.
The tanker was drawn into the first lock, the gate closed behind her, and the water receded into secret tunnels below. The buildings, the electric mules vanished above. The ship lay quietly at the bottom of the well. Then the great steel gates in front swung open; lights flashed along the water's edge; the tanker was drawn forward into the middle lock.