At the officer’s words every one leaped up and dashed on deck, scarcely knowing what to expect, for the appearance of a submarine was the last thing any had dreamed of and all felt sure the sub-sea craft must be the one they sought. For a moment they gazed upon an apparently bare sea, then, half a mile away, they caught a glimpse of a dark object resembling the water-logged hull of a ship as it lifted against the sky on a long roller. Already the destroyer’s men were at the forward gun and with every one excited and expectant, the little ship bore down upon the submarine.

“By glory, they must be going to surrender!” cried Rawlins. “If they weren’t, they’d submerge.”

“Then why in thunder don’t they signal?” exclaimed the Commander.

Turning, he barked out an order and a moment later, a string of bright flags rose to the destroyer’s stubby mast.

But there was no response from the submarine,--no answering signal.

“There’s something fishy about her!” declared Rawlins. “Guess they’ve got something up their sleeves!”

“They won’t pull any monkey shines with me, hang them!” burst out Commander Disbrow. Then, to the expectant gunner, “Put a shot alongside of her!”

Hardly were the words uttered, when the decks shook to the roar of the gun and a huge column of water rose like a geyser a few feet from the submarine.

“That ought to wake them up!” cried Mr. Henderson.

“But it didn’t!” exclaimed the diver who was staring through his glasses. “By glory, they must all be dead!”

The destroyer had now drawn within a few hundred feet of the submarine and still there was no sign of life, no signal displayed upon the wallowing craft ahead.

“I don’t like to sink her out of hand,” mused Commander Disbrow, “but I’ll be hanged if I’ll board her until I know what’s up. See if you can chip a bit off her conning tower, Flannigan.”

The big Irish gunner looked up and grinned as he saluted. “Thot Oi will, Sor!” he replied as he carefully trained his gun.

And as, at the crashing report, the top of the submarine’s conning tower vanished in a puff of smoke and a spurt of flame, the watchers cheered lustily.

“I’ll be sunk!” shouted Rawlins when even this failed to bring any response from the submarine. “They are dead--or else she’s deserted!”

“Have a boat lowered away!” ordered the Commander turning to the young lieutenant, “and board that sub with an armed crew. Don’t take chances. If you find any one, take them dead or alive--and be sure you get the drop on them first!”

A moment later the boat was in the water, the armed bluejackets tumbled into her and in the lee of the destroyer rapidly bore down on the sub-sea craft while those on the destroyer watched them with every nerve tense with excitement. They saw the boat draw alongside the submarine, saw the officer and two men scramble on to the water-washed deck and saw them cautiously approach the hatch with drawn pistols. Then they disappeared and all waited breathlessly, expecting to see them emerge with their captives. But when, a moment later, they again came into view they were alone and gaining their boat headed back for the destroyer.

“I’ll say she’s deserted!” cried Rawlins. “By glory, those rascals are leaving a regular trail of deserted boats behind them. First the sub off New York, then the schooner in the Bahamas, then that sub in Santo Domingo and now this one! Suffering cats! They must have subs to burn!”

“Well, if they’ve abandoned this one, I’d like to know what they’re on now,” declared Mr. Pauling. “Perhaps they did seize some other ship after all.”

“We’ll know in a moment what’s up,” said Mr. Henderson as the boat swept alongside.

“Forward starboard plates are stove in, Sir,” announced the lieutenant as he approached and saluted the Commander. “Appears to have been in collision. She’s half full of water and several bodies floating about inside.”

“By Jove!” cried Mr. Pauling. “They’ve met their deserts at last! Well, it’s saved us the trouble of following farther. I suppose you did not notice the bodies sufficiently to describe them, Lieutenant.”

“Unrecognizable, Sir,” replied the young officer. “Evidently suffocated by gas from the batteries when the water reached them. Not pleasant to look at, Sir, but appeared to be members of the engine room crew from their clothing.”

“Hmm, then I’m afraid we’ll never know if the leaders survived or not,” mused Mr. Pauling. “Too bad, but it can’t be helped. I guess there’s nothing else, Disbrow, except to land this gang we have in Trinidad--I suppose that’s the nearest port.”

“Yes, it’s the nearest,” agreed the Commander, “but we’ll sink that sub first. She’s a menace to navigation.”

A moment later the gun roared again and once again. Fragments of steel plates and twisted iron mingled with the upflung water as the bursting shells struck true and the shattered submarine sank to her last resting place to form the tomb of those who had come to their death within her. Now that the submarine had been destroyed there was no chance of hearing the truth of the plans which had been made to rescue Robinson and his fellow plotters from the destroyer and all possible speed was made for Trinidad.

But Rawlins was still skeptical. “I’ve a hunch that old boy with the monocle didn’t go down with that sub,” he declared as the blue waters changed to a dull muddy brown from the mouth of the Orinoco nearly one hundred miles distant. “I’ll bet he and Red Whiskers and some others got away and saved their hides. They may have been picked up or they might even have made land. And I’d like to know what became of that blamed seaplane.”

“If they were picked up they’ll be reported,” declared Mr. Pauling. “When we reach Trinidad, we can send out a general alarm to hold them wherever they arrive; but personally I believe they’re dead. If the sub was in collision, she must have been run down at night and in that case all below were probably suffocated. The fact that there were only a few bodies visible proves nothing, for there may have been many more in the rooms or out of sight. Of course, the plane is unaccounted for, but I imagine they left her somewhere and all took to the sub long before it was disabled. You see, we have no proof that it was used after leaving Aves--now that we know Robinson’s story was pure falsehood.”

“Maybe,” was the diver’s comment. “But I’m still from Missouri.”

When the boys came on deck the following morning, the lofty mountains of Venezuela loomed above the yellow-brown water ahead with blue-green hills stretching far to east and west.

“Gosh! it doesn’t seem possible we’re looking at South America,” exclaimed Frank. “Where’s Trinidad, Mr. Rawlins?”

“There to the east,” replied the diver. “Those mountains to the west are at the tip of Venezuela, those lower green hills dead ahead are the islands at the Bocas, and only the northern end of Trinidad and those faint misty mountains in the distance are visible from here.”

Gradually, the apparently solid land ahead seemed to break up; narrow openings of water showed between the hills and presently the destroyer was steaming through the famous Bocas leading from the Caribbean into the great Gulf of Paria.

“Golly, this would be a nasty place to have anything go wrong!” exclaimed Tom as the little ship passed between the jagged, rocky islands and reefs that lined the waterway. “Maybe I’m not glad I surprised that fellow.”

“Don’t think you’re the only one that is,” said Rawlins. “And Disbrow isn’t dead sure something may not be wrong yet. Look at the way he’s got men at the anchors and the way he’s just crawling along.”

But nothing happened, the destroyer passed through the Bocas in safety, and, as the great bulk of Trinidad loomed ahead, the boys forgot everything else in their interest in watching the beauties unfolding as they steamed across the Gulf towards Port of Spain. They could scarcely believe that the ranges of lofty, cloud-topped mountains, the far-reaching valleys and the interminable shores stretching away in the dim distance were on an island and not a continent. When they mentioned this, Commander Disbrow explained that Trinidad really is a bit of the tip of South America cut off only by the narrow Bocas at the two ends of the Gulf of Paria.

“It’s wonderful,” declared Tom, “but still I don’t like it as well as Dominica. Somehow it seems more natural for a place as big as this to have all those mountains, but Dominica’s so different from anything I ever imagined that it fascinated me.”

“And this is too much to take in,” added Frank. “Dominica was like a picture that you could see all at once. Are there any interesting things here?”

“There’s the Pitch Lake,” replied Rawlins. “Only it’s not a lake, but a big bed of asphalt, and oil wells, and some fine water falls, and the Blue Basin.”

“Well, I hope Dad lets us stay a day or two so we can see the place,” said Tom. “Is the Pitch Lake near the town?”

“No--down at the other end of the island,” replied the diver. “You can go by train and steamer or by motor car. You’ll find it a queer spot, but hotter than blazes. When I used to come down here with Father, he sometimes loaded asphalt at Brighton--that’s the port of the Asphalt company--and I was always mighty glad to get away. I’ll say it’s the hottest place in this world!”

They were now approaching the harbor and as Mr. Pauling had radioed ahead that he had prisoners to be turned over to the authorities, a police boat manned by gigantic black “bobbies” was waiting for the destroyer when she at last dropped anchor off Port of Spain.

As the pompous, florid-faced inspector, followed by his half-dozen black giants, boarded the destroyer the usual fleet of shore boats drew close.

“Here, you!” cried Rawlins beckoning to one darky. “Hand me up a paper.”

Tossing a shilling to the fellow, the diver seized the Gazette and turned eagerly to the column headed “Maritime News.”

“Here ’tis!” he exclaimed, as he ran his eye rapidly over the various items.

“Barbados, 29th. Steamship Trident, La Guaira for European ports, put in with leak in port bow. Reports being in collision with what appeared to be a water-logged derelict on the night of 27th. Longitude 62° 58’ W. Latitude 12° 35’ N. Captain Donaldson states that he believes there were men clinging to the derelict as officer on watch insists he heard cries after striking, but no trace of men or of the derelict could be found although the Trident stood by and burned flares for half an hour.”

“But how do you know that’s about the steamer that struck the submarine?” asked Tom.

“I don’t know,” admitted the diver. “But I’ll bet a five spot to a plugged nickel it is, just the same. It’s the same position--or at least within a few miles of it--as where we found the old sub. It’d be blamed funny if there was a derelict and that sub knocking about the same spot. Anyhow the Trident didn’t pick any one up so I guess my hunch was wrong about Old Glass Eye getting off.” While Rawlins had been speaking, Frank had been examining the paper and suddenly he let out a yell that made the others jump.

“Jehoshaphat!” he cried. “Just listen to this!” Then while the others listened he read:

TO EXPLORE JUNGLES IN AIRSHIP

Demerara, Tuesday. The steamship Devon which arrived yesterday brought to our shores Messrs. La Verne and Dewar who plan a unique expedition into the hinterland. Messrs. La-Verne and Dewar brought with them on the Devon the latest type of hydroplane or flying boat with which they will explore the unknown interior of the Colony. Their aircraft excited the admiration and wonder of everybody as the two intrepid men got safely off and rising gracefully from the surface of the Demerara River soared like a great bird above the tree tops and disappeared in the direction of the unknown solitudes. We understand that Messrs. La-Verne and Dewar are conducting their expedition in the interests of a large British and American syndicate which is interested in the development of the Colony’s resources. We wish the gentlemen every success and a safe return.

“By the great horn spoon, that’s them!” shouted Rawlins. “Steamship Devon. Well I’ll be sunk! By glory! How that Robinson did fool us! And while those chaps were watching for the Devonshire which didn’t exist they let the blamed Devon come in and those two devils fly away and never even smelled a rat!”

“Then you mean--” began Tom.

But Rawlins had grabbed the paper and had rushed to the room where Mr. Pauling and the others were talking earnestly with the Inspector of Police.

“I’ll say they lied after all!” he burst out, as the men jumped up in surprise at his unexpected appearance. “It was the Devon they seized--not the Devonshire! And she’s got in and landed the confounded plane and those two precious scoundrels and got safe away again! Here ’tis, plain as can be!”

Eagerly, Mr. Pauling seized the proffered paper and read the despatch from Demerara and even the apoplectic inspector, who had seemed about to explode with outraged dignity at Rawlins’ impetuous interruption of the conference, forgot his ruffled feelings and scowled fiercely at the unoffending sheet over Mr. Pauling’s shoulder.

“Jove, you’re right!” declared Mr. Pauling at last. “A coincidence of that sort would be impossible. We’ve been tricked again, Henderson. Outplayed. But it may not be too late yet. Have Bancroft radio to hold the Devon.”

“No use now!” announced Rawlins. “She sailed day before yesterday. Look down in the Maritime News and you’ll find it. And there’s another item there--it was the Trident that rammed the sub.”

“But, but, my good man!” spluttered the inspector. “You can capture her. She cannot be far away you know!”

“No?” replied the diver questioningly. “Not in miles perhaps, but where? Did she sail north, east, south or west? The sea’s a mighty big place and a ship’s a mighty small thing to find on it--especially when she don’t want to be found. And what’s her name now? You can bet your bottom dollar she isn’t the Devon any longer.”

“But really, really, my good man, I’m not accustomed to being addressed in that manner, Sir!” burst out the inspector. “I’d have you understand I’m the Inspector of Police, Sir. Why, who under the sun are you anyway, Sir?”

“I’m a poor boob that thought you fellows down here had common sense!” retorted Rawlins hotly. “Why the dickens didn’t they have brains enough to think of Devon and Devonshire being too blamed much alike?”

“Come, come, Rawlins!” exclaimed Mr. Pauling in mollifying tones. “Major May is not to blame and I suppose there really was no reason for suspecting the Devon to be the Devonshire.”

Then, turning to the purple-faced officer. “Major,” he said, “let me introduce Mr. Rawlins. He’s our guide, philosopher, and friend, if I may quote a hackneyed saying. I don’t know what we’d do without him. He and the boys are really responsible for all we’ve accomplished and he’s famous for his hunches.”

Rawlins grinned and grasped the inspector’s hand and the latter, as quick to recover his temper as to lose it, smiled under his bristling white mustache. “Jolly glad to know you!” he declared. “Sorry if I offended you and all that. Bit peppery I expect--India and liver, you know. Curry, and all that sort of thing. Ah, yes--and the hunches--’pon my word, never heard of them. Sort of cocktail, are they not?”

The diver could not restrain his merriment and Mr. Pauling and the others grew scarlet.

“Not quite, Major,” Rawlins managed to reply. “Don’t know if I can explain it--Yankee term, sort of slang, meaning a premonition or something like it, a--well a hunch you know.”

But the splenetic old veteran could take a joke even if on himself and roared with laughter at his own error.

“Jolly good thing, that about the Devon,” he declared when all were on good terms once more. “Now we have a proper charge against these rascals you have. Couldn’t see my way before--with no such ship as the bally old Devonshire. Couldn’t accuse them of doing away with a ship that didn’t exist, you know. All different now, though. Well, I must be off. Anything I can do, just call on me. Any plans in view?”

“I’ll say we’d better beat it for Demerara,” declared Rawlins before Mr. Pauling could reply. “If those devils are off in that seaplane, we may get ’em yet. They’ve got to land somewhere and they’ve got to come back. They can’t fly clean across South America without gas.”

“Righto!” agreed the inspector. “Cousin of mine inspector there, you know. Give him my regards. Good chap, Philip, rather new to his job, of course, and all that sort of thing--but smart chap. Yes, he’ll do anything to help you, rather!”

“Now, what’s this big idea about going to Demerara?” asked Mr. Pauling, after the inspector had left accompanied by his men and with the surly prisoners securely handcuffed.

“Why, my idea is just this,” the diver explained. “Those two rascals have beat it for the interior in their plane. Of course, they were that slick guy with the monocle and old Red Whiskers--but you know as well as I do that they’re not exploring or in the interests of any syndicate. But I will say they’ve got some sense of humor at that--‘big American and British syndicate,’ by glory! They’re half telling the truth at that--the ‘reds’ are some syndicate, I’ll tell the world! But that trip of theirs is just bluff. They’ve just gone up in the bush a ways to lie low until we’ve dropped off their trail. And I’ll say they had some everlasting nerve to use the name Devonshire and run the risk of the bobbies over there getting suspicious when the Devon came in. Expect it was so the crew wouldn’t have trouble in remembering it. Well, as I was saying, they’ll hide out in the bush or, by Jimminy, they may be headed for Dutch Guiana! But, whatever it is, a plane can’t go snooping around Guiana without attracting attention and we can trail ’em easy.”

“Admitting all that is true, as it no doubt is, whose attention is the plane going to attract and how do you propose trailing them?” asked Mr. Pauling.

“Also,” he added, “what makes you think the Devon was seized? Perhaps, the two took passage on her from some port with their plane.”

“I’ll answer the last question first,” replied the diver. “A couple of chaps don’t go touring around the West Indies carrying a seaplane in their handbag and if they’d appeared suddenly at some port, as if flying around, the paper would have mentioned it. Trust the skipper of the Devon--if he’d been genuine--to make a good yarn out of it. Besides, if they hadn’t seized the ship, how the deuce would Robinson have thought of using the same name and just tacking a ‘shire’ on it? If he’d been straight--or rather if they’d just boarded the Devon as you suggest--he’d have said Devon. And there’s that Anannias Club we just sent ashore. We know they lied because there wasn’t any Devonshire or I’d think they were survivors from the Devon. But as long as they weren’t, then they’re part of the gang. The only thing that gets me is where they stowed away a big enough crew on the sub to send twenty-two men aboard us and have enough left to man the Devon. And now about the other questions. The Indians are the ones who’ll see the plane and you can bet your boots they’ll all see it--think the Great Spirit himself’s coming I expect. By talking to a few of the Indians, we can trail that old plane as easy as if they were blazing their way.”

“But you forget Guiana is a big territory and a plane can hide anywhere on the rivers,” objected Mr. Pauling. “No, Rawlins, I’m afraid they’ve given us the slip for good.”

“Yes, I agree with you there,” declared Mr. Henderson, “but I do think it may be well to run over to Demerara. We can have a talk with the officials and leave them to apprehend the plane--and the Devon, if it comes back.”

“Very well,” assented Mr. Pauling. “It’s two to one, so I agree. Disbrow, we might as well get under way for Demerara.”