“Yes, sir, and a greater blackguard never drew breath. But I’ll tell you all about him and his companion Harkins at some other time. There is something in this I don’t understand, sir.” “Well, the first step in the way of an understanding will be to get these boxes open!” exclaimed the midshipman. “Hey, hombre!” he went on, “have you got a hatchet there?” “Si, senor.” “Hand it over then, quick--ah, that’s it! Now we shan’t be long.” With a quick stroke the middy ripped the covering boards off one of the cases and pulled out a handful of excelsior, and tore off some sacking. Snugly packed within were the parts of numerous rapid-fire guns. “Hooray! we were right after all!” he exclaimed. “This is a find, and no mistake. Why, these guns would be almost worth their weight in gold to those fellows in their attack on Boca del Sierras.” Suddenly out of the darkness came a sharp hail. “Boat ahoy!” “Ay, ay, sir!” hailed the midshipman. “It’s Lieutenant Timmons’ voice!” he exclaimed, in an undertone. “Lay to there, Stanley.” The man-of-war’s man obeyed. He had by this time finished patching up the man we know as Prentice, who had regained consciousness. Motionless the two boats lay on the water while the other approached. It was soon seen to be the _Beale’s_ gasoline launch. “What’s been happening, Stark?” demanded Lieutenant Timmons, as his craft ranged alongside. “What was all that firing?” “Why, sir, we ran into a hotbed of revolutionists.” “What, and they fired at you?” “A little, sir,” came with grim humor from the middy. “Good gracious! it sounded like a brisk engagement. Any one hurt?” “Stanley has a slight wound on his wrist, sir. The engine-room man is also wounded--a flesh cut on his shoulder.” “Thank Heaven it was nothing more serious! I did not know what to think when I heard the firing.” “But what is that launch they have there, sir?” prompted Ensign Conkling, who had accompanied his superior officer. “Exactly. Ahoy there, Stark, what’s that launch you have alongside?” “That’s our prize, sir.” “Your prize?” “Yes, sir. She’s loaded with machine guns of the latest type. I rather think, sir, we’ve put a crimp in the revolutionists’ plans.” Lieutenant Timmons burst into a laugh. “I should rather think so!” he exclaimed, “but, you young rascal, are you aware that serious complications may follow this action?” “Why, sir, I----” began Stark, all his conceit gone, and a rather embarrassed feeling coming in its stead. “I, sir, that is----” “Oh, well, never mind explanations now. You have done splendidly, and upheld the best traditions of the navy. I wish we could all have a chance at those chaps. But the thing to decide now is what to do with those captured guns.” “If you will not think it presumptuous, sir, I have a suggestion,” volunteered Stark. “And that is?” “That we turn the guns over to those who need them most, like they do presentation bouquets to a hospital.”