  On the dock at Porte Zelaya, the task of loading bananas was at last progressing. At regular intervals all that long forenoon and well into the day, the little engine with its string of cars came puffing and rattling down the narrow gauge track. With its cars groaning under the great loads of green which it brought, it came to a halt on the dock. There, in exact imitation of the ants that had entertained Johnny on the previous day, the barefooted, perspiring Caribs seized upon the precious fruit, to pass it from hand to hand and store it carefully away in the hold of the ship. Johnny, with an eye out for trouble, was everywhere. Now on the dock, now on the train and now in the heart of the banana plantation, his keen eye took in everything. Yet no trouble came. A few disconsolate Spanish banana workers hung about. Such of these as seemed willing to render honest service Johnny set to work. Dressed in the simplest of garb, cotton shirt, khaki trousers and high-topped boots, Johnny nevertheless drew forth many a covert smile from the black Caribs, for he wore at his belt not one machete, but two—one on either side, and none of the Caribs had ever before seen a man carry two such weapons. The sun was hanging low over the storm wrecked banana plantation, their task was well nigh completed when Johnny, seeing some straggling young banana plants growing in a half cleared patch to the right of the track and believing that here he might find a few superb bunches, hurried away down a narrow deer trail. He had reached the nearest bunch of bananas and was about to cut it down when something sprang at him. His first thought, as his heart went racing and he dropped to earth with the quickness of a cat, was that he had come close to the lair of a jaguar. This thought was dispelled by the white gleam of a blade. “Diaz!” he told himself. “And we are alone. There is to be a battle after all, a battle, perhaps to the death, with weapons which he has been familiar with since a child.” One thought gave him courage as, springing away to the right, fighting for time to draw a blade, hotly pursued by the panting Spaniard, he rounded a great mahogany tree. Having drawn his right hand blade, he took a stand in a raised spot offering some slight advantage. His crafty opponent did not rush him. Instead he attempted to outmaneuver him by springing first to right, then to left, to at last completely circle him. “You’ll not win by that,” thought Johnny as the blood still pounded at his temples. “That is like boxing.” This maneuvering gave him time for a few darting thoughts as to how the affair was to end. If he were killed, what then? He hoped his body might be found at once. Madge Kennedy would never consent to the ship’s starting without him, dead or alive. That he knew well enough. He wanted this, his last undertaking, to succeed, wanted it desperately. “Somehow I must outmaneuver him,” he thought. At once his mind turned to that extra blade. There was no time for drawing it, for of a sudden his opponent, with blade lifted high, sprang squarely at him. Had Johnny been beneath that blade when it fell, his skull must have been split. With skill acquired as a boxer, he leaped away and the machete, slipping from the Spaniard’s unnerved hand, dropped harmless on the moss. There was no time for Johnny to seize his opponent’s blade. There was opportunity to draw his left hand blade. Draw it he did. The expression on the Spaniard’s dark and angry face as he found himself facing two blades was strange to see. Plainly he was puzzled and nonplussed. He had fought and beyond doubt done for more than one man who, like himself, wielded a single machete. But what of this boy who seemed at home with two? He wasted little time in thought, but springing with a twisting glide, he attempted to throw Johnny off his guard. In this he was not successful. For a full quarter of an hour, battling, perspiring, crossing blades, bending, thrusting, each striving for an advantageous opening, the two men fought on. Then a sudden catastrophe threatened. On stepping backward Johnny caught his heel in a tie-tie vine that grew low to the ground. The next instant, with the Spaniard all but on top of him, he went crashing to earth. With a look that was terrible to see, the Spaniard aimed what he meant to be a final blow. A hush hung over the jungle. The blade came swinging down. But not too fast. As if dodging a boxer’s blow, Johnny shot his head to one side. Burying itself a half blade’s length in the ooze, the knife struck there. Nor did it come away when the frantic Spaniard pulled at it. It had become firmly embedded in the buried stump of a mahogany tree. The next instant the Spaniard felt himself lifted bodily in air. Then with senses reeling he came crashing down. When he came to himself he found himself bound hand and foot. After crashing him to earth, Johnny had made use of the tie-tie vine which had come near bringing him to his end. With it he had bound his opponent hand and foot. “You villain! You dirty dog!” Johnny hissed in his ear. “I should kill you. You have no right to live, you who strike when a man is down. But I will spare you. The ants may crawl over you for a few hours. After that I will send some one.” Gathering up three blades, souvenirs of the expedition, he disappeared into the brush. Ten hours later, laden to capacity with the golden harvest of the tropics, the North Star pointed her prow toward the north, while the Caribs, now crowded into pit-pans and sailboats, headed for home, lifting their voices in song-like chants. Only one little thing occurred to interrupt the North Star’s passage out of the Caribbean Sea into the open ocean. The evening was calm. They chanced upon a sailing boat lying becalmed and helpless in the midst of the sea. On the deck of the boat was a prosperous looking man. Short and stout, and with a very red face, he looked the part of a very busy man who thought well of his importance in the world of affairs, and who had by some chance been caught in an eddy from which he could not well extricate himself. He requested that they take him aboard. Johnny told him that he was not sure that coming aboard the steamer would serve his purpose. The man insisted; in fact he appeared to act as though he owned the North Star. So aboard he came. “What boat is this?” he demanded. “The North Star,” said Johnny quietly. “When did we charter her?” “When did who charter her?” “The Fruit Company, of course.” The man’s tone was overbearing. “You didn’t.” Johnny’s tone was still quiet. “I did.” The man sniffed the air. “Bananas!” he said. “I am President of the Fruit Company, and in that capacity I demand to know what is the business of this steamer in these waters.” Johnny’s heart suddenly sprang up into his throat. He tried to speak and could not. His head whirled. The President of the great corporation here on board his ship! The very man who had the power to make or break not alone him, but Kennedy and Madge as well. The thing seemed impossible! “F—fruit,” he stammered. “She carries fruit. Bananas, and for—forbidden fruit and—and things like that.” He knew he was talking like an idiot, but for the life of him he could not talk sense. Little wonder. He was having his first little chat with a millionaire, but it was not to be his last. |
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