The Hero of Panama: A Tale of the Great CanalBrereton, F. S. (Frederick Sadleir)
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The Hero of Panama: A Tale of the Great Canal
Brereton, F. S. (Frederick Sadleir)
Panama Canal (Panama) -- Juvenile fiction
"This won't help us," he exclaimed. "Let us decide what has happened.
Ah, Pedro is killed! Strange, he often had an idea that a man would stab
him. I saw a man dressed as a Chinaman strike at him."
"It was a Chinaman," declared Miguel. "I saw him distinctly. I fired
direct at him, but the bullet drilled a hole through the pack saddle."
"Pack saddle, man! Pack saddle!" shouted Jaime, a horrible suspicion
crossing his mind. "What do you mean?"
Miguel felt frightened for the first time for many a day. Jaime glowered
at him and toyed with his revolver, as if he would willingly shoot him
if his answer were not satisfactory; then he blurted out the truth.
"Why, the pack saddle with the two bundles of notes chained to it," he
said sullenly. "The Chinaman stole them."
"And you let him go free! Gurr!"
Jaime stamped in his anger. He kicked the ground as if it had done him
some injury. Then he stepped across to the spot where the five figures
had been stretched when Jim and his friends first looked into the
clearing.
"The girl?" he demanded. "She has gone too? With the Chinaman?"
"With another man. I just caught a glimpse of him; he was standing in
the centre of the hollow that carries the stream."
Slowly the matter dawned on Jaime in its true light. He came to see that
this attack was not what he had at first suspected--a sudden raid made
by natives living in the forest, a raid led by some stray Chinaman, who
had taken service with them. It was an organized raid, an attack made by
those men from Colon. In a flash he realized that his carefully laid
schemes had come to naught, that his track through the forest had been
discovered, and that already his enemies were about him. The thought
sent the blood flying from his swarthy face till the skin looked ashen
grey and lifeless. He growled out violent exclamations beneath his
breath, and for a while paced to and fro restlessly. Then--for custom is
so strong that few can resist it--the fingers of his right hand dived
into his pocket, and within a moment he was rolling a cigarette.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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