On the instant, Tod turned his searching gaze seaward. The Araby had vanished in the night.
A sudden tropical shower, so common in Panama, deepened the darkness. "And they call this the dry season," commented the third. "Yeah—nine months rainy and three months wet."
They hurried under cover amidships. One bell sounded behind them, and the third went aft to prepare for his watch below. Tod followed as far as the firemen's quarters, where he walked nervously to the rail.
Two hours later, when the West Corinto had tied up at the Cristobal docks, the sky was once more clear. The arch of the Milky Way gleamed silver. Ships rode at anchor in the harbour; round lights flashed from open ports; moored to the bunkers for coal, other steamers lay, silent and dark save for their regulation lights fore and aft. Tod looked across the dark town, across the railroad tracks to Colon. Front Street quivered with lights; doubtless, her night life, famed in deck-house yarns, was now beginning.
Where was the Araby?
Tod slipped down to the wharf. At a run, he went to the left, searching the steamers in port for a sight of the rusty tramp. In half an hour, he found her. She was moored to the docks below the bunkers. He rushed up the gangway, breathless with eagerness. How the familiar deck echoed with his footsteps! It was like coming suddenly home again.
Abruptly he hesitated. A heavy-set figure loomed up in the alleyway ahead. His heart missed a beat. The first mate blocked his path.
CHAPTER VI
TOD SHOWS HIS FISTS
WHADDA ye mean?" growled Mr. Hawkes in his beard. "Tryin' to jump ship at Balboa, was ye?" He came forward, grasped Tod's arm, and pressed it cruelly.
"I wasn't," the boy murmured. "You know I got left."
"Yeah, I know it!" He pushed him toward the galley entrance. "Better take care of this infant, Jarvis," he called.
Tod leaned against the bulkhead and turned his eyes on the retreating form of the mate. He was joined at the gangway by the captain, and the two talked for a moment in low tones.
"Mr. Burton," came Captain Ramsey's voice.
"Yes, sir," answered the young third mate from the deck above.
"We're going ashore, Burton; and it's up to you to see that none of the crew leaves. No liquor smuggled aboard, either—see?"
"Very good, sir."
The two men descended the gangway to the dock.
Tod turned to the galley. The cook was filling two pans with new-made bread dough and setting it on the shelf until morning.
"Hello, Tom."
"Sufferin' mackerel!" Jarvis surveyed him with delighted eyes. "Where you been, Joe Macaroni?"
Tod sighed. "I thought I'd lost the ship for good," he admitted. "How'd she happen to stop here?"
The cook grinned broadly. "Oh, I told the Old Man that there'd be no meals if I didn't have a mess boy for help; and I wouldn't take a nigger, either. So we tied up to wait for you."
"By golly, I'm glad to be here."
The cook's smile vanished as he scrutinized the boy closely. "You're a little fool, Joe Macaroni, to come back to this tramp. Don't you see that the mate's got about as much use for you as he has for a broken tail-shaft?"
"I know—but I've got to get to Marseilles."
"Why Marseilles?"
"I'll tell you some time, but not now. I want ta see Red Mitchell."
The cook crossed his tattooed arms and, leaning back against the table, nodded slowly. "Oh-ho! So you think you want to fight, eh?"
"I do. The mate sends me on a wild-goose chase to a Chinese shop where Red Mitchell slugs me on the head. Thought he'd fixed me. Wait till I see him."
"Better slug the mate too, hadn't you?"
Tod's mouth and eyes wrinkled into a smile. "I'll do that later."
"Listen here, Joe Macaroni, you go slow. That little coal-passer is strong as a whale."
"Yes, but he doesn't know how to fight. And I do. Why do you suppose I've been practising boxing these last three years in the gym? Well, for just such a chance as this."
Jarvis threw back his head; his deep laugh boomed forth. "A regular stormy petrel. That's what you are, Joe Macaroni."
Tod, not a bit amused, turned and left him. He crossed the deck, where the open doors of the two forecastles gleamed pale yellow. At the top of the stairs, with his foot on the iron sill, he paused. The forecastle was dark with men. Voices rose with the cloud of smoke from pipes and cigarettes.
"Yeh, beat it, he did," came a voice. "A-scared he was. Ain't I right now?"
"Blimey, you're off yer nut, Red. The kid ain't scared o' the likes o' you."
"Oh, he ain't! Then why did he jump ship?"
"Yah, Red—you yoost wait. He'll come. Yoost wait."
"Stow the gaff, you fellers," said the boatswain. "You darn stokers always think you can run this here ship. Always blamin' the deck hands fer somethin'. Better go back to your own fo'c's'le, Red. The air's better for you there."
Red Mitchell snarled angrily. "Yeah, just like what Blackie Judson says—you fellers in here are all afeard to fight. Ain't I right now?"
In the little roar of rage that ensued, Tod went down the ladder. He met the men in the act of heaving Red Mitchell up the companionway.
"Blimey, it's the kid!"
"Yah—yah. Didn't I say yoost wait?"
The men fell back and unceremoniously dropped the little coal-passer. Tod saw surprise light the countenance of the rat-like face.
"Where was you, kid?" asked the boatswain.
Tod felt his anger rising. "Ask Red Mitchell. He knows where I was. He knows why I lost the ship at Balboa."
Toppy flung out a shrill cackle. "Blast yer hide, Red, if yer knew and didn't tell yer messmates."
Red Mitchell's mouth drew down at the corners in a snarl. "Naw. Don't ask me. Whadda y' mean, kid? Is you insinuatin'?"
Tod surveyed him coolly. "I suppose, Red, you never heard of the oriental shop of Mock Woo— Curios, Very Rare."
"You're talkin' through yer hat!" scowled the other.
Tod stepped forward. Throwing his cap on a bunk, he slipped out of his coat. "This isn't the first bit of dirty work you've tried, Red Mitchell. But it's the last. Get ready."
"Blimey, he's peelin' his sweater. Strike me Mine."
The boatswain put up a restraining hand. "You fellows wait."
"Wait, nothing!" Red spat upon the floor. "He can't bamboozle me—the toff! I'll stow his gaff!"
"Yeh, bose, it's time," said Toppy, stepping between them. "But wait a minute. We ain't got things ready. Look—the cap'n and the mate is gone to Colon on business." He laughed shrilly. "Treats us like little boys ten years old. We cawn't go ashore, oh, no. But we can stage a fight. In half an hour. We'll git the men together. It ain't fair to let them miss this here show."
A chorus of approval came from the bunks. "A fight. . . . Five rounds. ... A regular bout. . . . Toppy, you be referee. . . Where's yer fightin' kit, Toppy, what yer talked about?"
Red Mitchell fell back, and Tod crossed to his bunk. The little Londoner was down on his knees, wrenching open his dunnage bag beneath a lower bunk. He came out with two pairs of short drawers and canvas shoes.
"Stole the bloomin' things," he grinned. "They came straight from the ringside at the Liverpool docks."
"Py yiminy! A real fight."
"Here, Red, take yer things and dress. We'll call yer in twenty minutes." He turned to Tod and thrust into his hands the fighting kit. "Here's yours, kid. Make ready."
"All right." Tod nodded. He waited until Red Mitchell had climbed above and gone to the firemen's forecastle, then he followed. He determined to take a shower first. Already Toppy was clearing the benches from the floor, and fixing a shade over the electric bulb in the deckhead.