“ROBBED?” cried Bob, almost unbelievingly.

Before he could say anything further, a tall, dark man appeared at the front of the coach. Roughly he shouted something in the native tongue, at the same time flashing a shining pistol in full view of all.

“Quick!” exclaimed Mr. Wallace, taking advantage of an opportunity. “Hide our money—under the seat there next to you.”

The naturalist handed his pocketbook to Bob, who had taken his own purse from his pocket. The two he placed in a little crack between the seat and the side of the coach.

He was not a moment too soon. Scarcely had the youth resumed his natural position when the robber appeared before him and demanded money.

“Our pockets are empty,” Mr. Wallace told the man. “You can’t get anything from a poor man.”

The Colombian soon found that the naturalist spoke the truth. But even then he was a bit suspicious. Americans or Europeans—he knew not which they were—usually were rich, carrying with them much money. And that these two had boarded the train with empty pockets was indeed surprising.

Search as he did, however, he could find no trace of any money. But he was somewhat satisfied when he took possession of Mr. Wallace’s handsome watch.

Luckily Bob had left his timepiece in the cabin of the monoplane, having forgotten it in the excitement of the day. Strange to say, this was the first day in the week that the youth had not worn it.

“Well,” said Mr. Wallace, after the man had gone, “I lost the equivalent of fifty dollars. Not a great deal. But too much to have taken from me.”

“Good thing you thought to mention hiding our pocketbooks,” Bob told him. “If you hadn’t, we’d have been in a fine mess. Away out here in a strange country with no money.”

“And of course the railroad wouldn’t have made it good,” the naturalist said disgustedly. “If I ever have another watch I suppose I’ll have to pay for it.”

Ten minutes later the train was again chugging across the barren plateau. The robber gang had vanished before a cloud of heavy dust, perhaps not any too well satisfied with its exploit.

“I didn’t know this was dangerous territory,” remarked Bob Holton a little later. “Seemed like everyone was too lazy to do anything but loaf.”

“I guess we’ll find gangs anywhere we go,” Mr. Wallace told him. “At least that’s my opinion, after quite a bit of traveling.”

Bob recalled the bands of criminals he had met with at home and on the Sahara Desert, and concluded that his friend was right. No matter how much good there is in the world, there is always a certain amount of bad.

Two hours later the Americans were surprised to see that they were coming into a town. At the railroad station where they had boarded the train, they had not been told that another town was between them and the coast.

“This is Mahatos,” announced the naturalist, pronouncing the name as best he could.

“Guess everyone here wants strangers to be sure and know what town they’re in,” laughed Bob. “At any rate, that sign is plenty large. Almost hides the station.”

This town was much the same as the one at which they had boarded the train. They were glad when finally it was left behind.

“Wonder if we’ll make any more stops?” mused Bob with a smile.

“Don’t be surprised if we do,” Mr. Wallace replied. “For all I know there may be a dozen villages between us and the coast.”

During the next two hours the train crawled along without coming to a settlement. Then finally it passed a row of little black houses and pulled into Cartagena, the coast city.

“All out,” said Mr. Wallace, picking up the large gasoline can. “We’ve reached our destination at last.”

As the Americans looked about the well-built station, they found that this was a city of considerable importance. Crowds of people, clusters of business houses, and—what was more interesting to them—automobiles dotted the streets.

“Where there’s a motorcar there’s gasoline!” cried Bob joyfully. “Now who says we won’t put fuel in the airplane tank!”

They found a filling station—or at least a place where gasoline was sold—not far away and lost no time in having the can filled to capacity. Then they turned back to the railroad station.

“Our business in this city is completed in five minutes, after having made a four-hour trip here!” Bob could not help bursting out in laughter, and Mr. Wallace joined him.

They entered the railroad station and inquired when they might board a train back to Calamar.

Much to their displeasure, they found that it would not be possible to do so until the next morning. The agent explained that it was necessary to repair a portion of the track, and that until this was completed, a run could not be made.

“Just as I expected!” groaned Bob, sitting down on the seat hopelessly. “To save your neck you can’t make time in South America.”

“What will we do to while the time away?” asked the naturalist.

“Look around, I suppose. Nothing else to do.”

The Americans found Cartagena very interesting. Its several industries were throbbing with life; its people were possessed of a certain amount of energy and ambition that was entirely absent farther inland.

The travelers were loitering along at the port, watching the steamers arrive and depart, when Bob suddenly caught sight of something that caused him to nudge his friend.

“Look at that fellow over there,” the youth pointed out. “Isn’t he an American?”

Almost at once Mr. Wallace made a reply. “He is as sure as I’m born. Or else”—the naturalist hesitated—“he’s English.”

The object of their remarks was a short, fat young man of perhaps twenty, with twinkling eyes and a pug nose. He was dressed in khaki outdoor clothes that stretched tightly over his protruding stomach.

Before Bob and the naturalist could make a further move, the strange young man walked over to them, his small, deeply set eyes flashing with merriment.

“Ain’t you from the good old U. S. A., or ain’t you?” he demanded, extending a short, fat hand.

“From nowhere else!” Bob was overjoyed. “And I take it that you are?”

“Right as four chipmunks!” the little fellow said quickly. “You’re lookin’ at Chubby Stevens, from Houston. And now that I’ve got that off my chest, I ain’t expectin’ you to hold your names a secret.”

Bob laughed.

“This is Mr. Wallace, and my name’s Holton—Bob Holton. I’m from Washington and my friend’s from Chicago.”

“A good bit of the Estados Unidos is represented here, I see,” Chubby said with a laugh. “The East, Middle West, and Southwest. I suppose you’re just lookin’ around?”

“For the present, yes,” Mr. Wallace returned, and then related the events that led to their being in Cartagena.

The fat youth listened intently.

“You may be wantin’ more of South America, but I don’t,” he said when the naturalist had finished. “I’ve been here a year and have got all I want of it. I’m longin’ to see the old Gulf Building, back in Houston. Dad’s office is there. He’s a lawyer.”

“And you—what are you doing here, just seeing the country?” inquired Bob.

“I’m seein’ too much of it to suit me,” Chubby answered. “Came here to look around and to get rid of some fat. But doggone it, I’m fatter now than I ever was. Guess I’ll have to cut out adventurin’ and take back my old job in the office, if I want to get skinnier.”

A burst of laughter followed.

“You’re hopeless, all right,” chuckled Bob. “I never saw a case like yours before. Why, I weighed a hundred and eighty before I left the States, and I’ll bet I don’t weigh much more than a hundred and seventy now. If exploring would do that to me, why won’t it do it to you?”

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to figure out for the last year,” Chubby returned. “Funny, but I used those same figures, but I just switched them around. Went from a hundred and seventy to a hundred and eighty. That’s away too much weight for a bozo my size to carry around.”

“Why don’t you try swimming back to America?” laughed Bob. “That might do the trick.”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about that, too, only I’m afraid I couldn’t take along enough to eat.”

“Oh!” Bob groaned hopelessly, and then, as he found that Chubby had just arrived in Cartagena, suggested that they take a walk about the city.

But as it was almost noon, Chubby suggested that they get a “bite” to eat. Just enough, he said, to prevent them from falling from hunger.

Mr. Wallace snorted.

“I suppose it’s impossible to do it,” the naturalist said earnestly, “but I’d like to take you along on our expedition into the Andes. If you’ll go, I’ll guarantee that you’ll get rid of twenty pounds.”

“Huh? Are you tryin’ to kid me?” Chubby looked up suddenly.

“Not a bit of it,” Mr. Wallace answered, trying hard to suppress a smile. “It works every time. You see, we have to get by on limited rations and——”

“Fine! I’ll go—— What was that you said? Limited rations? That means less food, doesn’t it?”

Mr. Wallace nodded.

“Then I’m afraid,” began Chubby, shaking his head slowly, “that I couldn’t think of considering your proposition, however wonderful it might be. I’m——”

“It’s no use,” laughed Bob. “A heavy eater doesn’t make an explorer.”

Bob and the naturalist were finally persuaded to follow the fat youth’s suggestion and get a “bite” to eat. Then they continued their sightseeing.

Thus the remainder of the day passed, and they began to look about for a place to spend the night. Chubby resolved to remain with his newly found friends as long as the latter stayed in Cartagena. Then, he told them, he would take a boat to the United States.

The three Americans engaged a small room in a boarding house that was owned by a Canadian. Although it was not the utmost in comfort, they were glad to throw themselves on the hard bed to retire.

They passed a restful night, however, awaking late the next morning.

“What shall we do until train time?” asked Bob, preparing to leave the room.

“Look around some more, I suppose,” Chubby said. “In this country you can always find something you haven’t seen before. There’s a lot that’s funny, too. I’ve been laughing a year at the natives.”

“Maybe they’ve been laughing at you,” Bob thought to himself, but said nothing. The fat little fellow would indeed provoke a smile from many.

Until ten the three walked around the city, noticing everything that was peculiar to this strange land. When finally they came back to the railroad station, they were not a little fatigued. Especially tired was Chubby.

“Well,” Bob began, “we’ll leave in fifteen minutes, if we follow the set schedule. I suppose,” he said to the fat youth, “you’ve definitely made up your mind to go back home?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you won’t think of going with us to the Andes? We could use you, all right.”

“Sorry, but it’s North America for me.” Chubby spoke decisively. “This continent here ain’t fit for a gazook like me. I want to get back.”

He exchanged addresses with Bob and Mr. Wallace, pocketing his notebook just as the train steamed up to the station.

“Good-bye and good luck!” called Bob, as he stepped up into the coach. “Write us sometime.”

“Hope you lose some fat,” laughed Mr. Wallace, as they started moving. “And you’d better not try to swim to the U. S.”

The train moved slowly away, leaving Chubby to stand on the platform, still waving.

“Good fellow, all right,” smiled Bob, settling himself down in the seat. “All he needs is a little well-directed exercise.”

“I’m afraid he won’t get it,” said the naturalist. “He’ll probably be fat as long as he lives.”

The journey back to Calamar was uneventful. Bob and Mr. Wallace looked out rather fearfully as they passed the spot where they had previously been robbed. But no gang appeared this time to stay them.

Finally they reached their destination and left the train. They were greatly surprised to see that no one was there to meet them.

“That’s funny!” mused Bob, as he and the naturalist lugged the heavy gasoline can in the direction of the airplane. “I thought sure Dad or Joe would be here.”

When at last they came to the airplane, Bob gave a cry of surprise.

Seated on the ground were Joe, Karl Sutman, and Mr. Holton, their faces bleeding from numerous scratches, their clothes torn and wrinkled.