  “This must be the place. A filthy looking little office.” Mr. Livingston had paused before a doorway on a shadeless, rather depressing back street of Cartagena. Only a moment before, a carriage had deposited the Scout leader and the four Explorers at an address where they hoped to obtain information concerning Appleby Corning. The day was uncomfortably warm. Since arriving eighteen hours earlier at the Caribbean port, the Scouts had waited expectantly at their hotel. No word had come from Mr. Livingston’s friend, the mining engineer, who had promised to meet and personally escort them to the Last Chance mine above Emerald Valley in the eastern Andes. Learning that the company which controlled the emerald mine, had a Cartagena as well as a Bogota office, the Scouts finally had set out to find the former. “This is the company office all right,” Jack Hartwell confirmed, consulting an address scribbled in his notebook. “In we go,” the Scout leader urged. He led the way into the untidy quarters of the Bolton Mining Company offices. The outside room in which the Explorers found themselves was both deserted and dusty. Old magazines and mining journals cluttered the tables and chairs. “No one here,” Warwick remarked uneasily. Ken, however, crossed the room to an inner doorway which opened into another office. “I beg your pardon,” he said apologetically. “Good morning.” The words were addressed to a man, who sat half-hidden behind a battered, roll-top desk. He wore no coat or necktie and had not shaved that day. Seeing Ken in the doorway, the agent’s feet came down from the desk where they had been resting. His mouth dropped open to expose unclean, broken teeth. “Good morning,” Ken repeated pleasantly. “Are you the agent for the Bolton Mining Company?” “That’s me,” the man growled. “Who are you? What do you want?” Unprepared for such an indifferent reception, Ken stepped aside so that Mr. Livingston and the other Scouts could enter. The company agent regarded them with obvious annoyance. “Well, what d’you want?” he demanded again as no one spoke. “My name is George Livingston,” the Scout leader introduced himself. “You probably know why I am here.” “Never heard of you.” Somewhat taken aback by the agent’s blunt reply, Mr. Livingston introduced Ken, Jack, Willie and Warwick. The mining company man merely stared at them with complete lack of interest. “You are Ferd Baronni?” Mr. Livingston inquired, as the agent failed to introduce himself. He had been informed at the hotel as to the company representative’s name. “That’s right. You got business with me?” “Appleby Corning didn’t tell you we were coming to Colombia?” “I ain’t seen Corning in three months. And if I don’t see him for another three, it will be soon enough!” Mr. Livingston ignored the remark. “Mr. Corning agreed to meet us here,” he told the agent. “It seems there’s something wrong at the Last Chance mine, and he wanted us to help him out.” “There’s always trouble at the mine,” Ferd Baronni growled. He eyed the Scout leader suspiciously. “What did he send word to you for?” “Mr. Corning didn’t explain. He merely forwarded plane fares and asked us to come.” “Corning paid your way here? I always knew that guy was half crazy and this proves it! What does he figure you can do to get the mine on a paying basis? You an engineer, huh?” “No, I’m a Boy Scout leader.” The agent’s thin lips parted in a hard, mirthless smile. “You’ll be a big help!” he said sarcastically. “Sure! You’ll never be able to stand the climate at the Last Chance. It’s a lot colder than Bogota. I advise you to climb back on a plane and return to the States.” “We’re asking for information, not advice,” Mr. Livingston said pleasantly. “Do you know when Mr. Corning is likely to get here?” “You know more about it than I do,” the agent shrugged. “You are the representative of the company,” Mr. Livingston reminded him. “Sure, but Corning’s comings and goings ain’t none of my affair. It’s my job to ship out the emeralds. Lately, there ain’t been any to ship.” The agent smiled in grim satisfaction. “If you want it straight, your friend has fallen down on the job. He came here talking big—oh, he was going to clean up the mess at the Last Chance—get the cooperation of the workers, and open up a big vein! What’s he done? Failed like they all do.” “You’ve handled company affairs for quite a while, I take it?” the Scout leader questioned. “Twelve years. Part of the time I’m at the Bogota office.” “Tell us a little about the Last Chance mine,” Mr. Livingston urged. “Nothing to tell. Emerald mining is a government monopoly here, but an American outfit got a concession. The best emeralds in the world are found in Colombia.” For the first time, since the Scouts had met him, Mr. Baronni showed enthusiasm. “The Last Chance has been worked off and on before the coming of the Spaniards. But the mine’s playing out. Since your friend Corning took over, production has dropped alarmingly. Any day now I expect to get word from the company to close down completely.” “Sounds rather discouraging,” Mr. Livingston commented. “What seems to be the trouble?” “Corning doesn’t know how to handle the Indians. They steal him blind. Another thing, the mine is playing out. It’s up to him to find another vein of emeralds, and find it quick. The former engineer should have been left in charge.” Mr. Livingston eyed the agent thoughtfully, but made no comment. It had been apparent from the first, that Ferd Baronni had no love for Appleby Corning. “Want to see some emeralds?” the agent invited, pulling himself reluctantly from a swivel chair. From an old-fashioned safe, he removed a cigar box. Almost reverently, he fingered a handful of large emeralds contained within. One which he offered Mr. Livingston was soft to the touch, very dark in color and had smoldering fire. Another, somewhat smaller, was a shade lighter. Instead of having a subdued glow, it seemed to blaze with flame. “Now this one’s a first quality emerald,” the agent informed the awed group. “We ain’t getting many of ’em any more from the Last Chance.” “You say the mine is likely to close down?” Mr. Livingston questioned. “Any day now. Then the workers will drift off to find work elsewhere. Once a mine shuts down, vegetation takes over. That’s how so many once-rich veins have been lost.” “Mr. Corning didn’t tell you we were coming?” “Not a word.” “Our cables I think, came through here. Or perhaps they were sent by way of Santa Marta.” “That’s the big banana shipping port. Corning has friends there. Your message to him still may be there uncollected.” “But he knew we were coming,” Mr. Livingston said in a worried voice. “He promised to meet us here at Cartagena.” “Sure it wasn’t Santa Marta or Bogota?” “Of course not. We wouldn’t make a mistake as stupid as that. How can we get word to him?” “No way,” the agent replied indifferently. “When Corning gets around to it, if he ain’t too busy, he may drop down to Santa Marta. Or maybe to Bogota. Lately, he’s been sending his emeralds to the office there—when he has any to send, which ain’t often.” “Can’t we get word to the mine?” “There’s no railroad. Only a mule track. My advice is to see Cartagena and if he doesn’t show up in a few days, take a boat back to the States.” The agent’s advice was most discouraging to the Scouts. After talking with Baronni for a while longer, they gloomily returned to their hotel to think over the situation. “I can’t believe Appleby would let us down,” Mr. Livingston told the Explorers. “He’ll get word to us soon. Meanwhile, we may as well do a little sightseeing.” “We haven’t any too much cash,” Ben reminded the group. “In making our plans, we figured on Mr. Corning putting us up at the mine. If we run a fancy hotel bill here for a week or so, it will make quite a dent in our funds.” “Appleby will show up within a couple of days,” Mr. Livingston insisted. “Let’s not worry about it.” With time heavy upon their hands, the four Explorers thoroughly explored the delightful port of Cartagena. They visited the old reservoir, the ancient walls, the harbor and the fine residential section. But after three days of leisurely sightseeing, the Scouts wearied of the quiet old city. Each morning they called upon Ferd Baronni to ask if any word had been received from Appleby Corning. Each day, the answer was in the negative. “Better forget about the Last Chance mine,” the agent advised them gruffly. “You can catch a boat tomorrow for the States. After that, there won’t be another for a week.” Mr. Livingston shook his head. “Mr. Corning sent for us. I’m unwilling to return without at least making an effort to contact him.” “Suit yourself,” the agent shrugged. “You got a long wait ahead probably.” “We can’t afford to lose any more time. I’ve practically decided to go on to the Bogota office.” Baronni straightened in his swivel chair. “Some company officials live there, but the office is closed most of the time,” he informed the Scout leader. “If you’re dead set on pulling out of here, you’d have a better chance of learning about your friend at Santa Marta.” “Very well. How do we get there? Can you help us, or shall we make arrangements ourselves?” Ferd Baronni gazed steadily at Mr. Livingston a moment. “I’ll make the arrangements, if you’re determined to go,” he said. “I got a friend who runs a sled boat between here and Calamar. When you get there you can take a boat.” “Fine!” “Be at the dock tomorrow at seven,” the agent advised, writing an address on a slip of paper. The Scouts thanked him for his trouble, and went back to the hotel to pack. Their spirits soared at the prospect of leaving Cartagena. At dinner however, Jack noticed that Mr. Livingston was unusually quiet. “Worried?” he inquired. “Not exactly.” “You’re afraid we may not find Mr. Corning at Santa Marta?” Jack guessed. “The thought does bother me. It’s a little out of our way in going to the mine. Another thing—” “What’s that?” Jack asked as the Scout leader hesitated. “I’m borrowing trouble, I guess. But I can’t help wishing I hadn’t allowed Ferd Baronni to make our travel arrangements. He seemed too eager to do it.” “You don’t trust him?” “Not entirely,” Mr. Livingston admitted. “He dislikes Appleby Corning. Furthermore, he’s resented our mission here.” “I noticed that. We could cancel the arrangements.” The Scout leader considered for a moment, then shook his head. “No, we’ll let them stand,” he decided. “I’m ashamed of my suspicions. The sled-boat trip should prove to be an interesting diversion. I’m looking forward to it.” |
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