on a log and told of his night’s experiences, from his narrow escape on the bank and in the river to his discovery of the mysterious Spanish girl in the trail.

“What do you make of it?” he asked at the end.

“Don’t make much.”

“Of course, there’s that man-eating jaguar they’ve been talking about. They may have run away because they were afraid. They may have—”

“But what of that fellow down by the river!” exclaimed Pant. “No! I tell you what, Johnny, someone is plotting against us, someone with money and power. We’ll not spend a night here alone. We’ll get right back to Belize. And we must not come back unless we find a real, fearless crew.”

“I’m afraid that last is a big contract.”

“Maybe so. But let’s hope it’s not impossible.”

“What’ll we do with that?” said Johnny, pointing to the burro.

“Take him along in the power boat. I tell you what, Johnny, I always feel lucky when I’m saving some poor dumb creature from suffering. I shouldn’t wonder if Rip would do us a mighty good turn sometime.”

In this Pant was more nearly right than he knew. Also, this sad-looking quadruped was destined to be the cause of bringing him into great peril. But that was all in the future.

Pant had been down the river in a dory for bananas, cocoanuts and casabas. As soon as they had unloaded these stores and had eaten a hasty breakfast, they turned the prow of their motor-boat downstream and went pop-popping away.

* * * * * * * *

Belize, the city to which the boys returned, is one of matchless beauty. Built on a point of land reaching out into the sea, with its red-roofed, white-walled houses, gnarled old mahogany trees by its governor’s palace and stately royal palms at the back of the Bishop’s house, bathed in the tropical sun, it is a city to dream of.

Johnny Thompson dreamed of it very little. His mind was occupied with but one thought—getting back to the red lure.

He was making his way up from the dock to the hotel when someone called his name. Turning, he saw Hardgrave. Hardgrave was an old man. He hailed from the States and had been twenty-five years in the tropics. A natural student, he had learned much in that time and had already been of service to this boy from the land of his birth.

“Back so soon!” he asked in surprise.

“We did get back rather soon,” said Johnny. “At least our crew did. But we’re going back.” He said this last in such a tone as Sheridan must have used when he said: “Turn, boys, turn; we’re going back.” He had been given a task to do, and like any red-blooded American boy, he meant to go through with it.

“Want to tell me about it?” said the old man.

“I’d like to.”

“Come over to the hotel yard. We’ll find shade there.”

So, beneath a low-spreading cocoanut palm, Johnny told his story.

“Johnny,” said the old man impressively, when the boy had finished his story, “get up from your chair and walk over to the cooler for a drink of water. As you come back, without appearing interested, look at the man over there in the far corner of the veranda.”

Three minutes later Johnny resumed his seat.

“See him?” the old man leaned forward eagerly.

“Saw two men; a tall, thin, dark-skinned one, and a heavy-set one.”

“The thin one, a half-caste Spaniard, is the one. That’s Daego.”

“Daego? Who is he?”

“Is it possible you have not heard of him?” Hardgrave asked. “He’s the richest, most unscrupulous man of our city. He bought you out.”

“Bought us out?”

“Hired your men to quit, and to attempt killing you, like as not. He’d do that.”

“But—but why?” Johnny licked his dry lips.

“He has his eye on that red lure of yours, has had for a long time. Strange you haven’t heard of him, haven’t seen his boats. But then, of course, they pass in the night. Black boats, they are. You don’t see much of them. You wouldn’t, I’d bet on that.”

Johnny wanted to ask about those boats, but he wanted still more to learn of Daego’s desire for his treasure.

“You see,” said Hardgrave, “Daego’s built up an immense fortune working the Rio Hondo territory. He’s worked all the land up to your tract. There he was obliged to stop. It was owned by a man who would not sell; at least not at his beggar’s price.

“As you know, British Honduras is one side of the Rio Hondo, and Quintanaroo, a state of Mexico, on the other. Daego went across the river and obtained concessions in Quintanaroo. He’s working there now. His camp can’t be a dozen miles from your own. I’m surprised that you haven’t seen his boats but of course you wouldn’t. They’re black, and mostly pass by night.”

The old man paused as if in thought. Then, of a sudden, he exclaimed:

“It’s Caribs you want!”

“What’s a Carib?” Johnny asked. “Some sort of native fruit?”

“No,” smiled Hardgrave, “they’re men. Real men, too. Indians. Columbus called them the sturdiest, most warlike men of America. They’ve been that ever since. They’ve mixed with the whites and the blacks, but they’ve never lost their language nor their courage, either. They are supposed to have been head-hunters at one time or another, though that can’t be proven. They’re the bravest sailors, the most daring hunters of our coast; the best workers, too, and if they enter into a contract they’re mighty likely to go through with it. What’s more, they hate Daego. He’s cheated and underpaid them. There’s not one that will work for him. Yes, you want Caribs.

“And son,” the man leaned forward eagerly, “you’re in luck for once! There’s two boat loads of them over from Stann Creek now. You’d better see them. They’ll be down at the storeroom of the Tidewater Company.”

“I’ll go see them,” said Johnny. “What’s the best time?”

“Along about sunset.”

“I’ll be there.”

“You should.”

They parted at the gate. Johnny went to the market and bought the ham of a young peccary (wild pig) and took it to the hotel to be baked for a late supper. After that he sat for a full hour under the shade of a cohune-nut tree, thinking—thinking hard about many things, of the little brown girl who had appeared in the path by his camp in the night, and of Daego’s dark boats that passed in the night.

Just at dusk Johnny met Hardgrave at the bridge, and together they walked in silence toward the Tidewater storeroom.

As they approached the door they caught the sound of laughter. To Johnny’s well-trained ears there came old familiar sounds, a quick shuffle of feet, the slap-slap of leather.

“Boxing,” he told himself. His pulse quickened at the thought.

Johnny Thompson, young and vigorous, belonged to that ever-increasing army of American boys who realize that no person can fight his best in the battle of life unless he is physically fit. A strong swimmer, fast on his feet and limber as a hickory limb, Johnny was not the least skillful of boxers. So his heart was made glad by the sound that greeted his ears.

Silently he and Hardgrave entered the long low room to join the little company of watchers.

The instant Johnny’s eyes fell upon the dark, gleaming, strong and well-moulded forms of the Caribs, he felt himself admiring them.

“Black faces,” he told himself, “but real men.”

“See that big fellow over in the corner,”