“Then we get more money?” inquired Ned in level tone, although danger signals gleamed in his eyes. “Why, yes. You see, your services will be very valuable. You can keep us informed of every move of the _Beale_. But now place that money in your pocket.” “I don’t think so; I’ve another use for it,” said Ned quietly. “Another use for it, senor, why----” “This!” shot out the Dreadnought Boy, springing to his feet and flinging the roll of bills at the South American agent. It hit the dark-skinned fellow full in the face, and with such force was it hurled that a dark patch burned out against his countenance where it had struck. Jules Charbonde’s skin went a sickly yellow. His eyes glittered as balefully as a serpent’s. “So,” he snarled, “you insult a South American gentleman?” “Gentleman!” scoffed Ned, “We’ve another name for fellows who practice your sort of trade.” The clerk, alarmed at the sound of loud voices, came hastening up. “What’s the matter?” he demanded. “How much is the bill?” asked Ned. “Sixty cents. You had----” “Here’s a dollar. Never mind the change. Come, Herc, let’s get out of here, or I’ll feel tempted to give that fellow a lesson.” Together the two Dreadnought Boys hastened from the drug store, but the eyes of Jules Charbonde followed them with a menacing glint. He raised his hand to his face, where the red spot still showed angrily. “I’ll make you sorry for this,” he snarled, in his turn leaving the shop. Suddenly he wheeled sharply. A hand had been laid on his elbow. “I’d like to speak to you a minute,” said a low voice almost in his ear. CHAPTER II. A WILLING TOOL. Charbonde found himself facing a rather undersized youth of about the age of the two who had just left him. The newcomer had furtive, rat-like eyes, and a sharp face filled with a general expression of low cunning. “Who are you?” demanded Charbonde. “I don’t know you.” “I know you don’t,” responded the other easily, “and yet, I may be able to help you.” “Bah!” began the foreign agent, trying to shake off the hand laid on his arm. “Wait till you hear what I have to say,” resumed the other eagerly. “I hate those two blue-jackets who have just left you.” A new light suddenly shone in Senor Charbonde’s eyes. He began to regard the furtive-looking youth with more interest. “Who are you?” he demanded cautiously. “My name won’t mean much to you. It’s Harkins--Henry Harkins. I was formerly in the navy, but I was dishonorably discharged, owing to those two fellows. I hate them.”