But of their host’s interest in the papers the little group had no inkling. They contentedly sipped their sodas—which, to tell the truth, despite their provider’s recommendation, were rather warm—and watched Stanley furrowing his weather-beaten brow over the documents.

“Well,” said Ned at last, “what do you make of them?”

“Hold on a minute,” cried Stanley excitedly. Evidently he had stumbled across something that made the papers of strange interest to him.

“Why,” he shouted with a slap of his knees the next minute, “it looks like we’ve stumbled on somebody’s treasure trove.”

“What?”

“That’s what I said. This paper here, so far as I can make out, is the last will and testament[85] of this old chap, de Guzman, who signs it. It wills all his fortune, real and personal, and that seems to be pretty big, to a Senorita Isabelle de Guzman.”

“Guzman!” exclaimed Ned, “seems to me I’ve heard that name a lot lately.”

“Why, yes,” put in Herc, “it’s the name of the leader of the revolutionists. They say he’s the worst enemy Americans down here have.”

“Hum,” pondered Ned, “maybe this girl is some relation.”

“Maybe; there’s a good catch for you, Ned,” laughed Stanley, “for this will disposes of an estate worth almost a million, and that’s a lot of money down here.”

“Or any other place,” grinned Herc, clinking what remained of his last month’s pay.

“Well, what are we going to do about it?” inquired Ned.

“Just hang on to it for a while,” counseled Stanley, handing back the paper. “I’d advise you to consult with Lieutenant Timmons or the American consul, and then we can learn better[86] what to do about it. After all, the Guzman named here may be down in the Argentine for all we know. It’s a common enough name in South America.”

“That’s so,” agreed Ned, “but the ship hailed from this port, or so her papers said.”

“That’s right,” agreed Stanley, “but what was old de Guzman, supposing he is, or was, worth a million, doing in her galley?”

“That’s a poser,” cried Herc.

“It’s like a scattered Chinese puzzle,” muttered Ned. “I wonder if we shall ever be able to put it together. Hello!”

He started to his feet suddenly and ran rapidly round the table to the other side of the arbor.

“What are you doing—chasing yourself round the block for exercise?” demanded the astonished Herc.

“No, but I’m almost certain that I saw some one dodge behind those palms yonder as I jumped up. Just before that I heard a rustling in the creepers behind you.”
 
“Somebody rubbering?”

“That’s what it looked like. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“I do,” put in Stanley, rubbing his grizzled chin.

“What, then?”

“That was a mighty interesting conversation we were just having.”

“To whom but ourselves?”

“To any one named Guzman, or kin to the Guzmans,” pronounced Stanley gravely.

“By hookey, you’re right! Who do you think it could have been?”

“I haven’t got any idea. Maybe our friend, the handsome waiter,” suggested Herc.

“I wonder,” mused Ned, but at that instant, as if to contradict his thoughts, the proprietor of the Villa Espenza appeared from quite another direction, balancing his tray gracefully and humming a song.

“Is there any one but ourselves here to-day?” inquired Ned, as he came up.

“Alas! no,” was the reply, “business is very[88] bad. You are the only customers we have had for some days. The revolution has put business—what you Americans call ‘to the bad.’”

After ordering and drinking more sodas the boys and their older companion rose and, bidding farewell to the bowing proprietor and promising to call again, started for the ship.

“Say, that fellow reminds me of somebody, and I can’t think who,” said Ned, as they set off down the hillside.

“Same here,” murmured Herc. “I have it!” he exclaimed suddenly, “that chap in Brooklyn—the fellow who wanted to know what was going on on board the Beale.”

“Oh, that dago,” grunted Stanley, who was acquainted with the incident, which the boys had related to him. “Somehow I’ve got an idea you’ll hear more of that chap.”

“I hope not,” responded Ned. “I wouldn’t pick him out for a constant companion.”

On their way through the water-front portion of the town the three passed a small shop in which post-cards were displayed for sale.
 
“Let’s go in and get some,” suggested Ned.

“All right,” laughed Herc, “I see your money’s burning a hole in your pocket.”

“Well, it’s only the interest on what we’ve got in the navy bank at four per cent.,” Ned reminded him.

They all bought several post-cards, and were leaving the store when Herc’s eye was attracted by something. It was a picture post-card, adorned by a colored view of the Villa Espenza, the place they had just left.

“Might as well take that, too,” said Herc, taking it from the rack. “Zan-go!” he cried suddenly, “look here—no, here down in this corner—what does that printing say?”

“‘The Villa Espenza, Bernardo Guzman, Proprietor,’” read Ned. “Wow!”

“And he overheard that whole talk of ours, I’ll bet a lemon!” cried Herc.

“Right you are,” responded Stanley gloomily. “And his name’s Guzman—no wonder he was interested.”

To avoid attracting attention from the owner[90] of the store, who was gazing curiously at them, the boys bought the post-card and left the place.

“See the way that fellow in there was glaring at us?” grinned Herc. “They sure do love Americans down here—not!”

“That’s a good way to tell a revolutionary sympathizer,” said Stanley. “The government party are all friendly to Americans. They realize the good they have done the country and the capital they have brought into it. The revolutionists, on the other hand, all want to see all foreigners out of here, and be able to run the place for themselves—and their pockets.”

“I don’t see why our government should interfere,” said Herc, as they made their way down the street, pursued sometimes by approving and sometimes by unfriendly glances.

“She’s not interfering,” rejoined Stanley; “that’s just it. If she could she’d mighty soon show these revolutionists where they stand. Not that the United States doesn’t believe in every one having a square deal, mind you, but at Washington they think these things should be decided[91] by the ballot box, and not by fighting and squabbling.”

By this time they had drawn near the wharf, had turned and were headed for it, when a sudden chorus of shouts and yells rapidly drawing nearer attracted their attention. At the same instant round the corner of one of the dark, narrow streets leading to the water front burst a strange group—or rather, from their exciting actions and cries, mob would be a better term.

“Hullo!” shouted Ned suddenly, “there’s some of our fellows among them.”

“By the great turret gun, so there are!” echoed Stanley, starting forward.

In the midst of a howling, yelling crowd of townsmen there had suddenly flashed into view for an instant the white uniform of a man-of-war’s man. Evidently he was having a desperate fight against heavy odds. As the Dreadnought Boys and Stanley rushed toward the scene of action, they could see stones and filth, both of which were plentiful in the streets, flying from all directions at the Yankee sailor.
 
“It’s Gifford!” shouted Herc, recognizing the centre of the group, who, though putting up a plucky fight, was overwhelmingly outnumbered.

“Hey! Gifford, stick it out. Beales to the rescue!” yelled Ned, carried away by indignation and forgetting that it would have been better judgment to try diplomatic methods first.

Echoing the cry, his two companions followed him in a furious dash into the crowd. Before the jackies’ sturdy arms the South Americans fell right and left like ninepins; but they, taken by surprise though they were, soon recovered their wits, and a hail of stones poured in on the boys and Gifford, to whose side they had fought their way.

“Quick, Gifford, get your back against the wall. We don’t want them attacking us from behind!” exclaimed Ned.

As the four sailors braced their backs against the corner building and stood, with flashing eyes, waiting the fresh onslaught of the Costavezans, a stone whizzed through the air.

Crack!
 
Before Ned had time to dodge it, the missile grazed his cheek. It fortunately only bruised the skin, but it set the blood to flowing. In a second, as if it had been a signal to the mob, the air became full of rocks. The Americans had to hold their arms over their heads to prevent being seriously injured.

“Come on!” exclaimed Ned, as the mob paused for a second for fresh ammunition, “a charge is the only thing for it.”

“When I say,—go,” seconded Stanley.

Suddenly, just as a squat little Costavezan, with a gayly colored serape wrapped round his dirty white clothes, raised an arm to hurl another stone, the word came.

“Charge!”

If an earthquake had suddenly struck that crowd, they could not have scattered more precipitately. Before the onrush of the Americans they parted like a flock of sheep when an angry collie runs through them. With shrieks and yells and imprecations, they fled right and left, many[94] of them bearing what would later become very promising black eyes.

“Charge!” Before the onrush of the Americans they parted like a flock of sheep.

All at once, just in front of Ned, there came a flash. He realized instantly what it was—a knife! With a rapid up-sweep of his elbow, more instinctive than anything else, he met the descending arm of the man who wielded it.

As the two arms clashed together the knife went flying out of its owner’s hand and fell with a steely ring at the other side of the street. As it did so the Dreadnought Boy’s fist shot out and collided with the Costavezan’s face with a “squdgy” sound. The fellow was lifted clean off his feet by the blow, and came down to the ground after twirling once round completely. As he fell he collapsed in a senseless heap.

“A sleep punch!” shouted Gifford, whose face was cut in a dozen places.

What the mob in its fury might next have attempted will never be known, for at that moment Gifford’s friends, who had become separated from him before the row started, hove in sight. With a shout they charged, as had the boys just[95] before, at the sight of the white uniforms in the midst of a hostile crowd. It was the end. With shouts of hate and fury, but prudently taking to their heels nevertheless, the mob scattered.

“How did it all happen?” asked Ned, as Gifford began mopping his face. Of the mob only a few curious small boys remained.

“Why, I saw a fellow pulling down an American flag from a small photo gallery up the street,” said Gifford, “and I just naturally waded in.”

“And——” said Ned, a smile hovering about his lips.

“Told him not to.”

“What happened then?”

“Why, then the nasty dago spat at me. I punched him, and before I knew it the whole mob was around me. I didn’t mind the stones so much, but, oh! those rotten bananas and those ancient eggs—phew!”

“Well, it’s a good thing no bones are broken,” said Ned. “Come on, let’s get down to the boat[96] before those fellows gather again. You want to get cleaned up.”

“You haven’t much on you,” grinned Gifford, looking at Ned’s face, blood-stained, where the stone had struck him.

Ned burst into a laugh.

“I guess not. Say, fellows, we’d better not say anything to the lieutenant about this. He might think we’d been rioting or something.”

“I guess you’re right,” agreed Stanley, “but in that case we want to look all right when he shows up.”

With his handkerchief dipped in sea-water Ned soon removed the dirt and grime from his face, as did the others. When the lieutenant, therefore, came down to the boat, he found a demure-looking crew seated, ready to put the oars over at the word of command. Perhaps he may have noticed one or two angry-looking bruises on the men’s faces, but naval officers learn not to see a great deal—sometimes.

“The feeling in the town is distinctly anti-American, the consul tells me,” Ned, who pulled[97] stroke, heard Lieutenant Timmons remark to Ensign Conkling, as they gave way.

“But about the revolutionists’ arms, sir?”

“That’s the mystery. They are getting them somehow, and plenty of them. I wish we could solve it.”

“So do I,” thought Ned to himself, as he bent to his oar. He resolved as he tugged away that if he got the chance, the delivery of the munitions of war to the enemies of his country would cease abruptly.