“No, something quite different from that.” Ned sunk his voice. “He went overboard to pick up a bit of paper that fellow in the boat threw out.” Had a bombshell exploded at Herc’s feet, he could not have looked more astonished. “Your mind works quicker than mine, I guess, Ned,” he said, “just as your eyesight is quicker. I didn’t see any bit of paper, but supposing there was?” “Well, it may mean nothing. The fellow may have a sweetheart ashore who chooses this means of sending him a message, and then again----” “It might all have been an accident.” “We may have a traitor on board,” resumed Ned, not paying any attention to the interruption. But whatever Ned’s suspicions were, the call to supper prevented further voicing of them. In the midst of the noise and laughter and bandying of jokes that goes on about the jackies’ table, it was, of course, impossible to exchange any more conversation on the subject on their minds. Soon after the meal, when darkness had fallen, a messenger from the commander of the _Beale_ slipped unobtrusively up to Ned. “Wanted aft, Strong,” he said, with a significant look. Ned readily comprehended. The consulate launch must have come off while they were at supper. Hastily he summoned his friends. Without attracting any attention from the chatting, laughing tars, the trio slipped past the funnels and the conning tower, till they stood at the edge of the quarterdeck awning. Here they stopped respectfully. Naval etiquette did not allow them farther unless by command or permission. Ned, however, with a sidewise glance, had noted that the dark outline of the consulate launch, a craft about thirty feet long, lay at the starboard gangway. The consul himself, a tall, dignified-looking man, with gray hair and goatee, sat in an easy chair talking to Lieutenant Timmons and his officers. The incandescents, which had been rigged under the awning, threw a sharp light on his features. “Ready, sir!” said Ned, saluting, as did the others. “All right, Strong,” rejoined the commander of the _Beale_. “Your men are here, Stark,” he said, as the middy came forward. “You men will need arms,” said Stark. Diving below, he presently came up with three heavy caliber, service revolvers. He gave one to each of his followers. A few minutes later they were in the launch and ready to start. It had been decided at the last moment that, instead of putting off directly from the _Beale_ when the gun-running launch hove in sight, it would be better to lie off one of the points at the entrance of the harbor, and then follow her up at a discreet distance. The boys were in ignorance of this, of course, but the man who crouched over the motor-boat’s engines evidently had his orders. The midshipman, who sat up forward at the wheel, gave the bell handle two sharp jerks--the sign to get under way. Chug-chug!