Part 2

Behind it all, however, the brusque rejection of their impassioned pleas rankled deeply. It seemed beyond belief that he could dismiss so lightly the menace to Ramona Bay.

* * * * *

In the morning Dixon joined him on his daily inspection. His questions were to the point, his approval free and ungrudging, as Stanley Graydon showed him the precautions that had been carried out with an iron hand. Through it all he held a fatalistic scorn for the menace of cholera, so far as he was concerned. For the first time he referred to their service on the flagship.

“Sorry, Graydon, about that row we had aboard ship. Personally I am no purist, but I am a fatalist. Seen many a fine chap make a damaging slip in his career. That was due to something beyond his control. I’ve got over the angry resentment that swept over me that night. I should perhaps have let it go. Talked it over frankly, brutally, with you afterward.”

“So you still think I cheated at cards!”

“I may have treated you unjustly, Graydon. Still, the admiral gave you every chance to clear yourself. Let’s try another tack. I always admired your professional ability. I admire the way you’re handling this tough job down here, and the way you hold your head up. I am willing to admit that, in spite of the most damning evidence, you may be innocent. Here’s hoping you can prove it.”

Stanley Graydon’s impulse to blurt out in savage, unsparing retaliation was checked by but one factor. That was his earnest desire to convince Dixon of the seriousness of Juan’s revelations. In the face of these revelations, he had no wish to incur further enmity.

On their way back to the hacienda, Dixon summed up his observations.

“You’re dead right, Graydon, in laying down the law for those ignorant peons.” He smiled tolerantly as he went on. “I’m destined to die at sea, just as I was destined to follow the sea. So don’t mind if I allow myself a little latitude on your rules.”

True to his tenets, Dixon steered his fatalistic course, eating mangoes with relish, drinking unboiled spring water. He was missing at breakfast the third day. Stanley Graydon, a prey to misgivings, found him in bed with the unmistakable marks of cholera on him. They were there in the faint livid tinge of his face; in the spasms of pain that raced through his body.

With the discovery, the last trace of bitter resentment on Graydon’s part fled. The iron will of the man, his serene fatalism, his stubborn fight for life, where a peon would have succumbed without a struggle, enlisted Graydon’s admiration.

Don Rafael heard the news with an air of deep abstraction. It was apparent that something of greater import had him in its grasp.

“Ah, if only Señor Dixon had acted as we begged him to! Now, if he recovers and relents, it may be too late.” His face was drawn.

The bitterness of it brought inspiration to Stanley Graydon.

“That radio is going, Don Rafael!” he cried. “I’ll write the message, sign Dixon’s name to it, and the legation will have it coded and on the air before night falls!”

Don Rafael’s voice boomed out exultantly for a mounted messenger.

“We’ll have the squadron at anchor in Ramona Bay two days before Henriquez is ready to spring his coup. We’ll have a division of destroyers searching for those gun-running expeditions. And when it’s all over, Don Rafael, I’ll tell why I came to Santander. If you’ll give me your hand at the end of that story, it will be all the reward I shall ask.”

“God bless you, señor!” Don Rafael’s voice was husky.

From Dixon’s bag Stanley Graydon brought a sheaf of official message blanks. He framed his dispatch in convincing naval terms, explicit and shipshape, and signed Dixon’s name to it. Behind him Don Rafael’s lined face was creased with a smile of beatific joy.

Stubbornly Dixon held to the faith that death could come to him only at sea, but he was weakening fast. Another day passed before the message seemed to have penetrated to his indomitable soul that he might not outlive the day. His mind was clear as the tone of a ship’s bell. His voice, despite its weakness, held the cold quality that was the index to the man.

“Graydon,” he gasped, “they’ll be piping me over the side soon. Listen to me for a moment, old man. When I’ve finished, bring Don Rafael here. You’ll need a witness to the last part of my yarn.” He choked for a moment and then went grimly on:

“I’ve always been crooked, Graydon. I ‘gouged’ my way through Annapolis on the one subject I was weak in. Steered a lone course. Never a messmate, I wouldn’t have sacrificed my lone hand if it meant a step toward flag command.”

A flicker of pain played over the masklike face.

“Needed money to make my ambitions come true. Played the stock market from the day I drew my first pay check. Bottom fell out of the market last fall. Wiped me out. Needed money desperately.” The thin lips pressed tightly against his bared teeth. “Sold the only thing that would get the price I needed--copy of the secret plans for the defense of Panama Canal. Final payment the day I delivered them.”

* * * * *

The cold gray eyes bored straight at Stanley Graydon and read in his eyes incredulous disbelief.

“Two weeks from to-day, Graydon,” the dogged whisper went on. “the _Franklin_ will be off Balboa. Draft from Mare Island to replace the sick and short-time men. Mess attendants in draft. Filipino boys--all but one. He looks like a Filipino. Officer of general staff in his own navy.”

“And the copy of the secret plans?” Stanley Graydon asked breathlessly.

“Secret drawer, at bottom of my clothes locker. He’ll slip into my cabin first day aboard. Get papers.”

Weakened by the compelling strain, the cold, measured whispers died away. Stanley Graydon’s tense face was twisted in mingled aversion and sympathy.

“Here, old man,” he snapped, “you’ve got to get this story off your chest. I’m going to give you a shot of strychnine. You’ve got to go on!”

He bent over with the hypodermic, and Dixon grinned sardonically.

“Be damned to the cholera!” he muttered. “Hasn’t downed me yet. Graydon, you’ve got to get back to the old ship. I don’t want those devils to get the plans at any price. To hell with their dirty money. I’m not going out with the guilt of a traitor on my soul.”

“They’d never let me over the gangway,” Stanley Graydon protested.

“Send for Don Rafael!”

From his closed teeth a groan escaped, but he had regained the mastery of himself when Don Rafael tiptoed into the room. Dixon’s eyes were dull, but the old authority of the quarter-deck was in his faint voice.

“My anchor chain is running out, Graydon. You, Don Rafael, swear me to the truth by the most sacred oath you know. Graydon, take down every word. I’ll sign it if it takes my last breath of strength.”

With uplifted hand, Don Rafael gave the oath. In Dixon’s dim eyes there still flickered the iron will of the man who had always gone crooked. Slowly, with infinite effort, came the confession:

“I, James Harkness Dixon, commander, United States navy, being in full possession of my faculties, do hereby solemnly swear that Stanley Graydon, captain, United States marine corps, is guiltless of cheating at cards on the U. S. S. _Franklin_, on the night of Friday, January 3rd.”

His emotionless voice trailed away. Only the racing of Stanley Graydon’s pen across the paper broke the acute silence of the room.

“I, James Harkness Dixon, did falsely and maliciously,” the weak voice persisted, “bring that charge to cover my own guilt. I do further swear that I brought this accusation to throw suspicion later on Captain Graydon for reasons that he has sworn not to reveal.”

He turned his head with an effort. There was a trace of the old peremptoriness in his whispered order:

“Now, Graydon, as soon as Don Rafael has witnessed it, I want to talk to you alone.”

* * * * *

The old don left them, and Dixon began. He was speaking quickly, as though the wings of death were beating over him.

“I marked the cards. Planted duplicate deck in your room. Dealt you that ace-high full off the bottom. If the sale of those plans ever got out, you’d have been the culprit. My assistant. Combination to the safe.”

Stanley Graydon leaned forward. The knuckles of his hands showed white under their tan. Full comprehension of it all was in his steady eyes.

“Same crowd at bottom--Ramona Bay. Knew you and Don Rafael were right. You’re too fine a lad to sacrifice.” He tried to raise himself on one elbow, but Stanley Graydon caught him tenderly. “Steady, old man, steady!” he said softly. “They had you in a devilish fix. I understand. Steady!”

There was a world of gratitude in Dixon’s staring eyes. A faint smile played over the pain-worn face.

“You’ve got to make knots to get back. Graydon. Get that copy. Destroy it.”

“I’ll tear it to bits within a few hours, Dixon. Sent a radio to the admiral through the legation. Signed your name,” he hastened to reassure him.

Approval, sheer and complete, shone through the dulled eyes of the dying man.

“Good lad!” he whispered. His hand sought Stanley Graydon’s.

He fell into a heavy stupor. At his side Stanley Graydon waited. The weak fingers relaxed. The sun was low over Ramona Bay. The thunder of guns came into the still room.

Stanley Graydon stepped lightly to the open windows. There, in the sunlit distance, the gray ships of the squadron were at anchor. The note of a bugle came faintly on the wind. He stepped back to the bed. If only Dixon could have lived long enough to grasp the significance of the flagship’s measured salute! Dixon’s eyes were fixed in the glaze of death. His tortured soul had found its anchorage.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 7, 1927 issue of The Popular Magazine.]