Ned stuck grittily to his post, although at any moment one of the bullets from the firing party ashore might have terminated his career. But presently, to his delight, the fire began to slacken and grow scattering.

“Guess they’re tired of wasting lead on the night,” grinned Ned, as, having rounded the promontory, he headed the two launches out to sea a way before turning to make back toward Boca del Sierras.

In the meantime Stanley and Herc had been bending over the wounded man. His eyes were closed and his face deadly pale. Herc for an instant feared, with an unpleasant thrill, that he was in the presence of death. No such timidity, however, assailed Stanley. With a quick move he ripped off the man’s shirt, which was ominously crimsoned.
 
“The lantern, please, sir,” he said.

Stark handed him the lamp, which had been placed in the bottom of the launch. Stanley held it above the man’s shoulder for an instant. It revealed a wound which was bleeding freely and looked ugly. But Stanley made light of it.

“Only a flesh wound,” he pronounced, “and if what I guess is right it’s no more than the rascal deserved.”

He ripped up the shirt into shreds, and began binding the wound.

While Stanley was engaged in this office for the man whom he believed, as did the two boys, to be a traitor of the blackest sort, Ned handed the wheel to Herc, and with Midshipman Stark boarded the prize. The first prize he had ever assisted in capturing! How proudly the boy’s heart beat as he thought of his part in the achievements of the night! Of the trouble into which their rash acts might plunge their government none of them thought just at that moment.

The frightened natives lay in the stern of the launch, where they had thrown themselves, groveling,[135] when the firing commenced. It did not need a menacing flourish of Stark’s revolver to convince them that their best course was to be perfectly docile. They were that already. A more frightened set of individuals it would have been difficult to find.

“Here, you, who speaks English?” began Stark.

“I do, senor,” piped up a voice.

“Well, what have you got in those boxes?”

“Machinery, sir—ploughs and the like for Senor Charbonde’s plantation.”

“Charbonde!” exclaimed Ned, forgetful in his astonishment that he was committing a breach of discipline by speaking in the presence of an officer without leave.

“I—I beg your pardon, sir,” he began.

“That’s all right, Strong,” assented the midshipman hastily, “if you know anything about this business, go ahead. If we’ve got the wrong launch, we’ll be in a nice mess. It may, as he says, belong to this Senor Charbonde.”
 

“Who protects his plantation with riflemen, sir?” asked Ned quietly.

“By Jove! that didn’t occur to me. But go on—question this fellow.”

“Was Senor Charbonde on board to-night?”

“Yes, sir, he arrived to-day on the mail steamer with another senor—an American.”

“An American engaged in this dastardly business!” exclaimed the midshipman.

“Yes, sir. Senor Hark—I forget the name.”

“Not Harkins?” fairly shouted Ned.

“That’s the name, senor. He swam ashore with the other senor when we saw your launch coming. As for us, we could not swim, so we waited the fate the saints held in store for us.”

“You know this Charbonde, Strong?” asked the midshipman in astonishment.

“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[137] 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. &ldqu............