Part 2

The set-up was complete, including a hot water tap in another corner of the cabin. If only Red didn’t wake up, or the doctor come in before he was dressed....

Fifteen minutes later Don was buttoning up his borrowed tunic, when a sudden yell and a thump spun him around in alarm.

“Sufferin’ sea serpents!” gurgled the voice of Red Pennington.

More muffled groans, grunts and howls for help issued from the tangle of bedclothes under Red’s berth. Don came to the rescue, laughing so hard that he almost lost his footing.

“Boy! You sure hit the deck in a hurry!” he chuckled, unwinding a sheet from around his stocky friend’s neck. “What were you dreaming about, anyway, to make you yell like that?”

“A-argh! Umph!” groaned Red, feeling of his chafed neck. “It’s no laughing matter, if you want to know it! I dreamed the Scorpion’s men were hanging me to the yardarm, and you came along just in time to cut me down. What if it _was_ only a sheet instead of a rope? That dream was real enough!”

“It probably was,” agreed Don Winslow, his grin fading. “I had nightmares aplenty myself. It must be the effects of that poison wearing off. You’ll feel better if you get up and shave, Red. Unfortunately, I have on the only uniform in the cabin....”

“Unfortunately is right,—if you refer to the fit!” cut in the fat lieutenant sourly as he got to his feet. “That tunic you’ve got on was built for a man of ample girth. Like me, for instance! And as for the pants—Whee-ew! Don’t let the wind catch ’em unfurled, when you go topside, Commander! That’s all I say!”

“And it’ll be enough, too, Lieutenant. At least until I get my own clothes back!” retorted Don, moving over to the open porthole. “Anyhow, this suit covers me better than—Whoa, there! Careful, sailor! Those knees of yours are going to buckle right under you!”

Catching Red’s arm, Don Winslow steadied him just in time.

“Where were you going to walk to, shipmate?” he asked.

Pennington’s reply was shaky, despite his plucky grin.

“Across to that chair and then collapse!” he answered. “Boy, oh, boy—this room’s going around! I’m weak as a baby. Hope it’ll pass off before Doc orders me back to bed.”

“Hope so, Red!” replied Don, easing his friend into the chair. “We’ll just sit here and talk for a few minutes. You know, I wish Headquarters hadn’t ordered us to destroy the Scorpion’s base, here. I hate to blow up all the machinery there that’s too heavy to move. If only I had another month to study those new inventions!”

“Okay, Commander!” chuckled Red Pennington. “Why don’t you dig up the whole underground base and take it along as a souvenir? That’d be just as reasonable as—Say, listen, Skipper! You ought to be more than satisfied with what you’ve done already. Wasn’t it you that found the Scorpion’s base, to begin with? And who else but Don Winslow discovered how our ships were destroyed, here in the Windward Passage? It was you, more than anybody else, who pulled the last trick of sinking the Scorpion’s submarine. What more do you want, to be happy?”

Don Winslow turned to gaze out of the porthole at the sunlit waves of the cove. Beyond stretched the white sand beach, now swarming with sailors in dungarees.

The _Gatoon’s_ launch and two whaleboats were pulled up at the edge of the water. Don guessed that they were getting ready to blow up the great steel cylinder buried at the jungle’s edge. In a few hours, at most, the gunboat would be weighing anchor, bound for the safety of civilized ports.

Which was all as it should be; and yet....

“If the truth has to be told, Red,” the young commander said softly, “I’ll never be satisfied until I nab the biggest prize of all—the Scorpion himself. Anything less than wiping out that menace to world peace, falls short of victory. You know how deeply I feel about that!”

“I do; and you’re not alone in that feeling!” responded Pennington earnestly. “But remember, Skipper, the capture of the Scorpion is nearer today than it was six months ago. Through _your_ efforts his secret organization is now on the defensive—almost on the run. I may not be a prophet or anything like that, but I’ll bet my life that within six months’ time you’ll have the Scorpion across the table from you—a prisoner!”

For a long moment Don Winslow gazed straight into his friend’s eager face. Red’s praise, his confidence, his enthusiasm, were all exaggerated, perhaps. All the same they meant a lot just at this time. The young commander’s chest expanded with a sigh of unspoken gratitude to this loyal friend and shipmate.

“You’re sure a grand tonic, Red, old man!” he smiled. “I hope your prediction comes true, to the letter. But we’ve got to do something more than just hope and wish, you know!”

“I do know, Don!” replied the chubby officer soberly. “And I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in the last few hours. There’s an idea that came to me last night. Maybe you’ll say it’s all crazy, but....”

“Crazy ideas are sometimes the best, after all, Red,” Don encouraged, as Pennington hesitated. “Let’s have it, anyhow. We can’t afford to overlook any bets in this man’s game, so shoot!”

Red Pennington wriggled uneasily in his chair.

“Well—all right. You asked for it, so don’t laugh!” he blurted finally. “It’s just this: you know enough right now to pass yourself off as one of the Scorpion’s agents. You actually did it, for a short while, the time we barged in on Shilling and the Shark,—remember? Why couldn’t you do it again, and make it stick?”

Don Winslow took a turn up and down the cabin’s narrow space, frowning as he chewed mentally on Red’s suggestion. Bringing up before his friend’s chair, he shook his head smilingly.

“It wouldn’t do, shipmate,” he stated. “In the first place, we’d have to capture some member of Scorpia who looked enough like me to make my disguise and substitution possible. Next, I’d have to find a way to open that man’s mind out flat, and memorize everything he knew. It’s all very well to dream about, but you know yourself such breaks only come once in a lifetime.”

“Unless you make ’em, Skipper!” returned the stocky lieutenant, pushing himself up to his feet. “For instance, you could get yourself kicked out of the Navy—dishonorably discharged—stripped of your commission—disgraced publicly before your shipmates. Suppose you did that, and were determined to get revenge on the Navy for breaking you. Just where, then, would you be most likely to turn for help? Answer me, Don!”

For ten seconds the young commander stood gaping in stark amazement at the wildness of Red Pennington’s scheme. Slowly his expression changed to a boyish grin.

“I get you now, Red!” he said admiringly. “For sheer, crazy daring, your idea takes the cake. It’s fantastic, goofy, impossible, and yet—the more I think about it the more it grows on me, sailor! We’ll talk it over with Michael Splendor in any case, and see....”

With a sudden leap, Don Winslow cleared the space to the cabin door and yanked it violently open. A crouched figure outside dodged back, ducking around a corner. The officer sprang after him, only to trip and go sprawling in the “cabin country” just outside.

Ruefully he got to his feet and re-entered the door, closing it after him.

“Looks as if that poison gas left my legs kind of wobbly, too!” he grumbled, seating himself on his berth. “I almost caught Mr. Snooper at that. But, Red! You see what this means? _There’s at least one Scorpion spy aboard this vessel!_ He probably got an earful of our conversation, too, and....”

“BOO-OOM! BR-ROM-BOOM!”

The heavy explosions came from somewhere inshore. Red Pennington leaped from his chair to join Don Winslow at the cabin’s porthole. They were in time to see a huge mushroom of earth and water rise high over the jungle at the edge of the little cove.

Closer to the ship, and traveling nearer at appalling speed, rose a low wall of water—a miniature tidal wave created by the blast. As it struck the _Gatoon’s_ port bow, the decks tilted crazily, like those of a toy boat. After the wave had passed there came a dull roar of water rushing into a vast crater in the cove’s white beach.

“The underground base!” breathed Red, clinging weakly to the porthole. “They’ve blown it up, Don, along with all that machinery the Scorpion’s agents left behind!”

IV

THE CODE MESSAGE

Stepping back, Don Winslow stared at his friend aghast.

“Not everything—not ALL the machinery, I hope, Red!” he groaned. “Man alive! The Scorpion’s weather mapping machine alone was a priceless invention. If they’ve blown that up—”

“They didn’t, Commander, so put your mind at rest!” interrupted the rich brogue of Michael Splendor from the doorway. “I hope you’ll forgive me for wheelin’ in on ye unexpected, gentlemen. What with the explosions and the pitchin’ of the ship in that tidal wave, 'tis no wonder ye didn’t hear me knock!”

Don Winslow turned to grip the crippled man’s big hand.

“We’ll forgive you, Mr. Splendor,” he smiled, “provided you tell us what’s been happening ashore since yesterday. By the looks of the gang on the beach, a little while ago, there was a lot of work going on—more than just laying a dynamite charge.”

“There was indeed!” nodded Splendor. “Captain Riggs’ lads have been workin’ the whole night tryin’ to salvage the machines of the Scorpion’s invention. They’ve got most of them aboard ship now, includin’ your precious weather map. What they blew up just now was little more than an empty shell. I came in especially to tell ye that, and to bring ye this bundle before the doctor comes in to bother ye.”

With a broad wink, the big man produced a large package from under the blanket which covered his crippled legs. Ripping off the paper wrapping, he disclosed a pair of officer’s uniforms.

“I had to guess at the sizes when I borrowed them, lads,” he chuckled, “but they should fit better than what ye’re wearin’ at present. Look under the after part of me wheel chair for another bundle of shirts, shoes, and whatnot. Ye see, I thought if the doctor saw ye both dressed and about the decks he’d not have the heart to order ye back to bed. I know how hard it is for an active man to be kept on his back when there’s work to do!”

Don Winslow took the package of clothing in wordless gratitude. Somehow, this middle aged cripple’s thoughtfulness touched him more deeply than he could express.

Lieutenant Pennington’s pleasure, however, was quite outspoken.

“You’re a lifesaver, Mr. Splendor!” he cried, seizing the bundle out of Don’s hands. “I’d have died of shame if I’d had to finish this voyage in a bathrobe and pajamas. I feel a hundred per cent better already. Just wait till I get these on....”

“What news of Miss Colby, and the seaman Jerry?” asked Don, as Red retreated behind the locker door. “That is, if it’s not too early for the doctor’s report.”

“They’re both on the mend,” replied Splendor, his blue eyes twinkling. “Especially the young lady. Her cabin door was open as I came by, and I heard her askin’ the medical officer when you would be well enough to take her for a stroll on deck! But that isn’t all the news I have to tell ye, Commander. Lieutenant Darnley brought back a bundle of papers from the chartroom of the underground base. Unless my old eyes deceive me, there’s one item among them the Scorpion would prefer we didn’t know about.”

Don, seated on the edge of his berth, leaned forward tensely, his eyes alight.

“Great work, Mr. Splendor!” he exclaimed. “Red Pennington and I went through those papers in a hurry without finding a thing of interest. What was it you picked out?”

“A mere bit of paper tucked away in a small notebook,” answered the cripple, fumbling in a pocket of his loose coat. “'Tis no wonder ye overlooked it; but with me nose for smellin’ out secret codes, I was suspicious of the thing immediately. Now, then—here it is! An innocent-looking message, is it not? But with the code key right there in the notebook, it becomes something else entirely.”

Red Pennington, now dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers which fitted him surprisingly well, edged up to the wheel chair. His eyes were fairly popping with curiosity and excitement.

“G-golly!” he said huskily. “To think we both had this note in our hands, and never suspected anything queer! Mind if I look over your shoulder, Don?”

“Read it aloud, Lieutenant!” urged Michael Splendor, glancing up with a nod.

Red Pennington bent closer.

“'Proceed with original contract,’” he read, “'for delivery October or not later than the first of the year. We will expect San Francisco order on schedule as this Empire contact is highly important. Our telegraph operator advises that many messages suggest Cho-San as the ideal sales name for our delightful produce which suggests China Seas and that catchy name brings orders.’”

“Say, Don!” the red-haired lieutenant commented. “If that’s in code, it’s a loo-loo! Sounds just like an ordinary business letter, or something!”

“You’re right, so it does!” chuckled Michael Splendor. “But there’s the catch. Ye note that the message is typed in five word lines. Very well, take this pencil and cross out all but the first word in the first line, the second word in the second line, and so on through the fifth. At the sixth line begin again with the first word. When ye’ve finished, read me what ye have left.”

With a low whistle of comprehension, Don Winslow took the pencil and, stepping over to the cabin’s desk, swiftly made the indicated changes. A few seconds later, he read off slowly the words which remained:

“'Proceed—October—first—San Francisco—Empire—contact—Operator—Cho-San—for—China Seas—orders.’”

“Well, I’ll be keelhauled!” blurted Red Pennington. “That’s a Scorpion message, all right. It sounds plain enough, too, except for the word 'Empire’ and 'Cho-San.’ Do they make any sense to you, Mr. Splendor?”

The man in the wheel chair did not reply. While Don had been decoding the message, the cripple had moved his rubber tired vehicle over to the porthole. He was now gazing out at the sunlit shore line, with an expression of grim thoughtfulness.

Following the man’s look, Don gave a start of amazement.

“Why, the shore seems to be moving!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t realize the ship was under way, did you, Red? We were both so interested in this code message. Where are we bound, Mr. Splendor?”

With a quick movement, the big man whirled his chair about, and faced the two young officers. His broad, lined face had the look of a person just waking from a heavy sleep.

“Excuse me, gentlemen!” he said apologetically. “I’m afraid me mind was far away when ye spoke. The name 'Cho-San’ recalled things I’d like to forget, if this broken body of mine would let me. But this is no time to talk of me own troubles! Ye asked where we were bound, did ye not?”

At Don’s silent nod, Michael Splendor’s mood underwent another swift change. His strikingly blue eyes lighted with their irresistible smile.

“We’re steerin’ for Port-au-Prince,” he stated. “'Tis meself persuaded Captain Riggs to put us ashore there for a few days, while we’re waitin’ fresh orders from Washington. I’ve a big, cool, country residence of me own near the city, where ye and Miss Colby will be more than welcome to stay and recover ye’re full health. Don’t refuse, now, and disappoint an old shut-in who has little to live for except his friends!”

“Don’t worry!” laughed Don Winslow, exchanging glances with Red. “We’ve heard plenty about your famous country house, Mr. Splendor, and we’re not refusing! It’s more like a palace than an ordinary dwelling, I understand.”

“That’s fine, Commander,” said Splendor, wheeling himself around toward the door. “And now, if ye’ll just hand me that code letter from the desk, I’ll be shovin’ off.”

Red Pennington stepped over to the desk, only to stand staring in blank surprise.

“The paper—are you sure you left it here, Don?” he asked, stooping to search the deck beneath. “I’d swear you didn’t pick it up again!”

With a puzzled exclamation, Don Winslow joined him in a hunt for the missing letter.

Every scrap of paper on the desk was examined; every inch of the desk’s interior was covered. Don’s own pockets were turned inside out. Frowning, Don turned to Michael Splendor, who had been watching them in silence.

“It seems to have vanished!” he declared helplessly. “That letter just isn’t here; and yet, there’s no place it could have gone....”

“Don’t be too sure, Commander!” said the cripple, calmly pointing to the half-open door. “It _could_ have gone that way, with no more trouble than a sneak thief would take to lift it. There were several minutes, ye mind, when none of us was watching that side of the cabin. 'Tis me own fault, for I should have been on guard. Not even a Government vessel is safe from Scorpion spies!”

V

STRUCK DOWN FROM BEHIND

Like a picture ship on a blue enameled sea, the gunboat _Gatoon_ steamed quietly on her way. Not even a ground swell disturbed the level of her white decks, or raised an extra dash of spray from her cutwater.

Yet storm and violence, in human form, were already aboard her. Within the vessel’s narrow confines, loyal officers and citizens of a great nation were pitted against the unknown agents of a fiendish power. Each side now stood on its guard, ready for the battle to open; but when or where the first blow would be struck, only the Scorpion himself could tell.

The strain of waiting was hardest, of course, upon Don and his friends, who at this moment were gathered under an awning on the _Gatoon’s_ after deck. They knew that one or more of Scorpia’s agents were on board, disguised no doubt as members of the gunboat’s enlisted crew.

They were aware that the enemy would stop at nothing—not even at destroying the ship with every living soul—if that could be accomplished. Yet they were helpless to do a thing until trouble showed itself in visible form.

Don Winslow, standing by the after rail, had just finished telling about the spy he had almost caught listening at his cabin door. That incident fitted perfectly with the theft of Michael Splendor’s decoded letter. Unfortunately, the brief glimpse Don had had of the skulker was not enough to identify him.

“All I saw,” he admitted, in response to Captain Riggs’ query, “was a man’s white clad arm and shoulder disappearing around the corner of the bulkhead. It didn’t look like a seaman’s blouse!”

“You mean, it might have been an officer’s, Don?” cried Mercedes Colby, leaning forward in her deck chair.

“Or a petty officer’s or even a cabin steward’s,” responded the young commander. “That really isn’t much to go on in naming a suspect, you see.”

“I’m sure, Winslow,” said Captain Riggs stiffly, “that every commissioned officer here aboard is above suspicion. As for the enlisted personnel, of course, I can’t be sure. There were some replacements made in the crew before we shoved off from Guantanamo, and a spy might have come aboard with them. About the only thing we can do is to check their enlistment records.”

“The very idea I was about to suggest!” agreed Michael Splendor. “Suppose you and Commander Winslow look through the papers now, Captain, and let us know what you find. Meantime, Lieutenant Pennington and I will try to entertain Miss Colby. We’ll meet again at mess, this evening, if nothing happens before then.”

When Don and the captain had gone below, the man in the wheel chair turned his keen blue eyes on the two young people beside him.

“Sometimes, me friends,” he said earnestly, “I have a hunch that some great thing is going to happen. And happen it does, despite every circumstance against it. In this case me hunch is that the Scorpion’s power will be broken, and himself a prisoner, six months from this very day!”

A low whistle from Red Pennington greeted Splendor’s statement.

“But those were almost my own words to Don this morning!” the stocky lieutenant exclaimed. “Thanks to Don Winslow, we’ve matched every move the enemy has made with a better one. The Scorpion must be desperate, right now. And desperation usually goes before a flop, doesn’t it?”

“Very often, it does,” replied Michael Splendor cautiously. “But I’m afraid the Scorpion is more angry than desperate at this moment, for all the damage we have done him. 'Tis rather because of that code letter, and the opening it gives us, that I’m so hopeful of success. As you recall, it tells us there is to be a meeting of Scorpia members in San Francisco, with Cho-San himself in charge!”

“And who,” asked Mercedes Colby, as Splendor paused, “is this person you call Cho-San?”

Once more a look of gloomy absorption had spread across the crippled man’s features. His eyes, gazing outboard upon the sunlit Caribbean, had the look of a sleepwalker’s.

“Cho-San,” he murmured, “is a chosen member of the inner circle of Scorpia. It was he and his evil master, the Scorpion, who made me the cripple I am today. 'Twas their devilish torture, in the chamber of horrors they call the Dragon Room....”

A shudder gripped the big, helpless body of Michael Splendor, cutting off his strange speech. When it had passed, he sighed and blinked rapidly, like a man awaking from a nightmare.

“What was I speaking about? Ah, yes, I remember!” he said in a stronger voice. “Cho-San is the Scorpion agent in charge of all war-provoking operations from San Francisco to Singapore. Any meeting which he calls among Scorpia’s members is of the utmost importance. It means a fresh attempt to stir up war among civilized nations, so that, from the wreckage of human lives and fortunes, the Scorpion may pick more bloodstained wealth and power. The Naval Intelligence knows all that, but we need legal evidence before we can trap the archcriminal.”

“I see what you mean now, sir!” put in Red excitedly. “You’re hoping that Don Winslow may be able to horn in on that secret meeting in some way. If he could do that, he’d get the evidence you need!”

At Splendor’s nod of assent, Mercedes Colby caught her breath sharply.

“But wouldn’t such an attempt be horribly dangerous?” she protested. “Just supposing they caught Don eavesdropping, or present in disguise—what chance would he have of getting out alive?”

“Very little, I am afraid,” replied the man in the wheel chair. “But remember, my dear, the United States Navy is a fighting service, where men and officers expect to risk their lives in the cause of peace. Look! Here comes Captain Riggs, and he seems to be in a hurry. Perhaps he has news....”

The captain took the short ladder to the yacht’s poop deck in two leaps. His expression showed both worry and anger.

“Lieutenant Pennington!” he clipped out harshly. “I’m afraid you’re needed below, in my cabin. Commander Winslow....”

He paused, biting his lip as if at a loss for further speech.

“Go on, sir!” prompted Red in a strained voice. “What’s happened to Don? Has he been taken sick?”

“He’s been attacked!” blurted Riggs. “Struck down from behind and then chloroformed. The doctor is with him now.”

Red waited for no more. Forgotten were gassed lungs and wobbly knees as he plunged down the ladder and dived into the cabin country, several jumps ahead of Riggs himself.

Moments later Splendor and Mercedes Colby joined the anxious little group. Don Winslow was sitting up in the Captain’s swivel chair, looking decidedly “green around the gills.” The ship’s doctor was binding a compress about his head; and, despite the draft through open door and skylight, the whole cabin smelled of chloroform.

“I guess you people will have to tell me what happened,” the young commander was mumbling. “One minute I was looking through a pile of enlistment records—and the next, I was lying on the deck under the table, and feeling sick as a pup! What fell on me, anyhow, Doc?”

“A piece of lead pipe, to judge by the swelling,” growled the medical officer. “Someone wanted to put you to sleep in a hurry, and keep you that way. He used chloroform after slugging you.”