“Haven’t had an opportunity to,” rejoined Ned. “Unfortunately, in the service you can’t walk up to an officer and say, ‘I’d like a word with you.’” “Like our friend in Brooklyn,” grinned Herc, recalling the dark-skinned man, Senor Charbonde. “Exactly,” laughed Ned. The lad dived into his blouse for the papers from the _Donna Mercedes_. Since that night in the boat, when for a time it seemed that they were all doomed, the boys had struck up a great friendship with Stanley, who was an older man than either of them, and had seen many years of service in the navy. Like many another man of superior intelligence and character, he had had no opportunity to rise, either through lack of interest or ill luck, and was still a boatswain’s mate. Of his former life the boys knew little. But with the readiness of youth to form warm friendships, they had struck up one with this man and had already told him of their discovery on board the _Donna Mercedes_. Not till that moment, however, had an opportunity presented itself to consult him about the papers. As Stanley knew Spanish pretty fluently both boys felt that he would be an invaluable aid in revealing to them what secret--if any--the papers held. Just as Stanley laid his big, brown paw on the bundle of faded documents the polite waiter pro tem. of the Villa Espenza appeared, carrying the soda on a silver tray. He set it down with a bow and flourish, and accepted payment with an indifferent air. His sharp, dark eyes, however, in the roaming glance they had taken over the table, had noted the papers which Stanley had just appropriated. An expression of deep interest, which, however, he succeeded in masking from the boys, came into his face as he did so. Clearly the unctuous proprietor of the Villa Espenza was in deep thought as, with another bow and flourish, he moved away. CHAPTER VII. AN INSULT TO THE FLAG. But of their host’s interest in the papers the little group had no inkling. They contentedly sipped their sodas--which, to tell the truth, despite their provider’s recommendation, were rather warm--and watched Stanley furrowing his weather-beaten brow over the documents. “Well,” said Ned at last, “what do you make of them?” “Hold on a minute,” cried Stanley excitedly. Evidently he had stumbled across something that made the papers of strange interest to him. “Why,” he shouted with a slap of his knees the next minute, “it looks like we’ve stumbled on somebody’s treasure trove.” “What?” “That’s what I said. This paper here, so far as I can make out, is the last will and testament of this old chap, de Guzman, who signs it. It wills all his fortune, real and personal, and that seems to be pretty big, to a Senorita Isabelle de Guzman.” “Guzman!” exclaimed Ned, “seems to me I’ve heard that name a lot lately.” “Why, yes,” put in Herc, “it’s the name of the leader of the revolutionists. They say he’s the worst enemy Americans down here have.”