A rig was passing and Cummings hailed the driver.

“There’s a sick man in here and I want you to give me a hand to get him out, and drive where I tell you,” he said. “You’ll be paid well if you don’t ask questions.”

“Dere’s been berry many sick mans come out’n Mother Jenny’s,” volunteered the man with a grin as he pulled up his aged horse.

“You just keep your mouth shut. That’s all I want you to do,” said Cummings with a scowl.

“Oh, berry well, Busha,” said the black with a grin.

“Wait here, I’ll be out in a minute,” said Ralph Cummings. He hurried back into the unsavory interior of the place and presently issued again, supporting Jack, who was reeling and swaying from side to side and who gazed about him with a vacant expression.

It was at this moment that a dapper little man came hastening along the street.

“Good gracious, can it be possible that that is Jack Ready in such a condition?” he exclaimed. “Being led out of a low dram shop! It’s incredible! I’d not believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

He bustled up to Cummings, who was just putting Jack into the cab, where the young wireless boy collapsed, breathing heavily and rolling his eyes stupidly about.

“My friend, pardon me,” he exclaimed, addressing Cummings, “but my name is De Garros. I am a friend of this young man’s from the Tropic Queen. In fact I owe my life to him. Is he ill?”

“Ill nothing! He’s just taken a drop too much. Sea-faring men often do.”

De Garros threw up his hands in horror.

“I would never have believed it,” he cried incredulously; “yet it must be true! Ready, are you ill?”

Jack mumbled something incoherently in rejoinder. De Garros looked his disgust.

“What did I tell you?” sneered Cummings. “I’m taking him to a hotel. He’ll be all right in a few hours.”

“I am glad he has a friend to take care of him,” declared the dapper little aviator, and he hurried on, shaking his head over the intemperance which he had been led by Cummings to believe was the cause of Jack’s plight.

“That’s another spoke in your wheel, my lad,” muttered Cummings as he got in beside the now senseless youth. “I don’t know who your friend is, but he won’t think much of you after this, if, indeed, he ever sees you again.”

He leaned forward and gave a direction to the driver.

“Drive out along the Castle Road,” he said, mentioning an unfrequented road that led to the outskirts of Kingston.

The darky nodded. All these queer proceedings were none of his business. Their road led through the negro quarter of the town and they passed hardly a white face. Such negroes as they encountered merely stared stolidly at the white-faced, reeling youth seated at Cummings’ side.

By and by the houses began to thin out. Then, in the distance, down the dusty road, they came in view of an automobile halted at the roadside.

“Stop at that car,” ordered Cummings.

“At dat mobolbubbul?” asked the black.

“That’s what I said, you inky-faced idiot,” snapped Cummings.

“My, my, dayt am a nice gen’mums, fo’ sho’,” muttered the old darky. “Ah don’ jes’ lak de looks ob dese circumloquoshons nohow, an’ Ah am goin’ ter keep mah eyes wide open. Yes, sah, jes’ dat berry ting.”

By the side of the halted car stood Jarrold. He wore a broad Panama hat and a long white dust coat.

“Well, you got him, I see,” said Jarrold, with an evil grin that showed all his tusk-like teeth, as the darky’s rickety old vehicle came to a halt.

“Yes, it was like taking candy from a child,” responded Cummings. “Now if you’ll just give me a lift in with him, governor, we’ll get started.”

Between them, the two rascals half pushed, half carried Jack’s limp form into the back of the auto. Jarrold dug down into his pockets.

“This is the right road for the Lion’s Mouth, isn’t it?” he demanded of the darky. “It’s years since I was there and I’ve forgotten much about it.”

The black looked at him with dropping jaw.

“De Lion’s Mouf out by der ole castle, Busha?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” was the impatient response. “This is the right road?”

“Oh, yas, sah, yas, sah,” sputtered the driver.

Jarrold gave him a big bill and told him to “keep his mouth shut with that.” The darky looked at the bill and his eyes rolled with astonishment.

“Dere’s suthin’ wrong hyer,” he muttered as he climbed into his rickety old rig and prepared to drive back to town. “Hones’ folks wouldn’ give ole Black Strap dat amoun’ uv money fo’ dat lilly bitty ride ’less dey was suthin’ fishy. Reckon Ah’ll do some ’vestigatin’ when Ah gits back to der town.”

In the meantime, Jarrold had taken the driver’s seat of the car and Cummings sat beside him. In a cloud of dust they started down the road, the old darky gazing after them till long after they had passed out of sight.

Then he whipped up his bony old nag to its best speed and hurried back to Kingston.