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Page 28
"And my answer!" he asked.
There was something about him that made Constance almost draw away
involuntarily.
"To-night--at the pier," she murmured forcing a smile.
Shortly after dark the teams started their lumbering way across the
city and the bridge. Messengers, stationed on the way, were to
report the safe progress of the trucks to Brooklyn.
Constance slipped away from the boardinghouse, down through the
deserted streets to the waterfront, leaving word at home that any
message was to be sent by a trusty boy to the pier.
It was a foggy and misty night on the water, an ideal night for the
gun-runner. She was relieved to learn that there had been not a
hitch so far. Still, she reasoned, that was natural. Drummond, even
if he had not been outwitted, would scarcely have spoiled the game
until the last moment.
On the Arroyo every one was chafing. Below decks, the engineer and
his assistants were seeing that the machinery was in perfect order.
Men in the streets were posted to give Gordon warning of any danger.
In the river a tug was watching for a possible police boat. On the
wharf the only footfalls were those of Gordon himself and an
assistant from the Junta. It was dreary waiting, and Constance drew
her coat more closely around her, as she shivered in the night wind
and tried to brace herself against the unexpected.
At last the welcome muffled rumble of heavily laden carts disturbed
the midnight silence of the street leading to the river.
At once a score of men sprang from the hold of the ship, as if by
magic. One by one the cases were loaded. The men were working
feverishly by the light of battle lanterns--big lamps with
reflectors so placed as to throw the light exactly where it was
needed and nowhere else. They were taking aboard the Arroyo dozens
of coffin-like wooden cases, and bags and boxes, smaller and even
heavier. Silently and swiftly they toiled.
It was risky work, too, at night and in the tense haste. There was a
muttered exclamation--a heavy case had dropped! a man had gone down
with a broken leg.
It was a common thing with the gun-runners. The crew of the Arroyo
had expected it. The victim of such an accident could not be sent to
a hospital ashore. He was carried, as gently as the rough hands
could carry anything, to one side, where he lay silently waiting for
the ship's surgeon who had been engaged for just such an emergency.
Constance bent over and made the poor fellow as comfortable as she
could. There was never a whimper from him, but he looked his
gratitude.
Scarcely a fraction of a minute had been lost. The last cases were
now being loaded. The tug crawled up and made fast. Already the
empty trucks were vanishing in the misty darkness, one by one, as
muffled as they came.
Suddenly lights flashed through the fog on the river.
There was a hurried tread of feet on the land from around the corner
of a bleak, forbidding black warehouse.
They were surrounded. On one side was the police boat Patrol. On the
other was Drummond. With both was the Secret Service. The surprise
was complete.
Constance turned to Gordon. He was gone.
Before she could move, some one seized her.
"Where's Santos?" demanded a hoarse voice in her ear. She looked up
to see Drummond.
She shut her lips tightly, secure in the secret that Ramon was at
the moment or soon would be on the Gulf, out of reach.
Across in the fog she strained her eyes. Was that the familiar
figure of Gordon moving in the dim light?
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