When Santiago Fell: or, The War Adventures of Two Chums. Stratemeyer Edward

men, and this had put him in anything but a happy frame of mind.

      “Who are you?” he demanded in Spanish, as he eyed us sharply.

      Alano looked at me in perplexity, and started to ask me what he had best say, when the Spanish captain clapped the flat side of his sword over my chum’s mouth.

      “Talk so that I can understand you, or I’ll place you under arrest,” he growled. And then he added, “Are you alone?”

      “Yes,” said Alano.

      “And where are you going?”

      "I wish to join my father at Guantanamo. His father is also with mine," and my chum pointed to me.

      “Your name?”

      Seeing there was no help for it, Alano told him. Captain Crabo did not act as if he had heard it before, and we breathed easier. But the next moment our hearts sank again.

      “Well, we will search you, and if you carry no messages and are not armed, you can go on.”

      “We have no messages,” said Alano. “You can search us and welcome.”

      He handed over his valise, and I followed suit. Our pistols we had placed in the inner pockets of our coats. By his easy manner my chum tried to throw the Spaniards off their guard, but the trick did not work. After going through our bags, and confiscating several of my silk handkerchiefs, they began to search our clothing, even compelling us to remove our boots, and the weapons were speedily brought to light.

      “Ha! armed!” cried Captain Crabo. “They are not so innocent as they seem. We will look into their history a little closer ere we let them go. Take them to the smoke-house until I have time to make an investigation to-night. We must be off for Pueblo del Cristo now.”

      Without ceremony we were marched off across the clearing and around the back of the stable, where stood a rude stone building evidently built many years before. Alano told me what the captain had said, and also explained that the stone building was a smoke-house, where at certain seasons of the year beef and other meat were hung up to be dried and smoked, in preference to simple drying in the sun.

      As might be expected, the smoke-house was far from being a clean place; yet it had been used for housing prisoners before, and these had taken the trouble to brush the smut from the stones inside, so it was not so dirty as it might otherwise have been.

      We were thrust into this building minus our pistols and our valises. Then the door, a heavy wooden affair swinging upon two rusty iron hinges, was banged shut in our faces, a hasp and spike were put into place, and we were left to ourselves.

      “Now we are in for it,” I began, but Alano stopped me short.

      “Listen!” he whispered, and we did so, and heard all of our enemies retreat. A few minutes later there was the tramping of horses' feet, several commands in Spanish, and the soldiers rode off.

      “They have left us to ourselves, at any rate,” said my chum, when we were sure they had departed. "And we are made of poor stuff indeed if we cannot pick our way out of this hole."

      At first we were able to see nothing, but a little light shone in through several cracks in the roof, and soon our eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness. We examined the walls, to find them of solid masonry. The roof was out of our reach, the floor so baked it was like cement.

      “We are prisoners now, surely, Mark,” said Alano bitterly. “What will be our fate when that capitan returns?”

      “We’ll be sent back to Santiago de Cuba most likely, Alano. But we must try to escape. I have an idea. Can you balance me upon your shoulders, do you think?”

      “I will try it. But what for?”

      “I wish to examine the roof.”

      Not without much difficulty I succeeded in reaching my chum’s broad shoulders and standing upright upon them. I could now touch the ceiling of the smoke-house with ease, and I had Alano move around from spot to spot in a close inspection of every bit of board and bark above us.

      “Here is a loose board!” I cried in a low voice. “Stand firm, Alano.”

      He braced himself by catching hold of the stone wall, and I shoved upward with all of my strength. There was a groan, a squeak; the board flew upward, and the sun shone down on our heads. I crawled through the opening thus made, and putting down my hand I helped Alano to do likewise.

      “Drop out of sight of the house!” he whispered. “Somebody may be watching this place.”

      We dropped, and waited in breathless silence for several minutes, but no one showed himself. Then we held a consultation.

      “They thought we couldn’t get out,” I said. “More than likely no one is left at the homestead but a servant or two.”

      “If only we could get our bags and pistols,” sighed Alano.

      “We must get them,” I rejoined, “for we cannot go on without them. Let us sneak up to the house and investigate. I see no dogs around.”

      With extreme caution we left the vicinity of the smoke-house, and, crawling on hands and knees, made our way along a low hedge to where several broad palms overshadowed a side veranda. The door of the veranda was open, and, motioning to Alano to follow, I ascended the broad steps and dashed into the house.

      “Now where?” questioned my Cuban chum, as we hesitated in the broad and cool hallway. “Here is a sitting room,” and he opened the door to it.

      A voice broke upon our ear. A negro woman was singing from the direction of the kitchen, as she rattled among her earthenware pots. Evidently she was alone.

      “If they left her on guard, we have little to fear,” I said, and we entered the sitting room. Both of us uttered a faint cry of joy, for there on the table rested our valises and provisions, just as they had been taken from us. Inside of Alano’s bag were the two pistols with the cartridges.

      “Now we can go at once,” I said. “How fortunate we have been! Let us not waste time here.”

      “They owe us a meal for detaining us,” replied my chum grimly. “Let me explore the pantry in the next room.”

      He went through the whip-end curtains without a sound, and was gone several minutes. When he came back his face wore a broad smile and he carried a large napkin bursting open with eatables of various kinds, a piece of cold roast pork, some rice cakes, buns, and the remains of a chicken pie.

      “We’ll have a supper fit for a king!” he cried. “Come on! I hear that woman coming.”

      And coming she was, in her bare feet, along the polished floor. We had just time left to seize our valises and make our escape when she entered.

      “Qué quiere V.? [What do you want?]” she shouted, and then called upon us to stop; but, instead, we ran from the dooryard as fast as we could, and did not halt until the plantation was left a good half mile behind.

      “We are well out of that!” I gasped, throwing myself down under the welcome shade of a cacao tree. “Do you suppose she will send the soldiers in pursuit?”

      “They would have hard work to find us,” replied Alano. “Here, let us sample this eating I brought along, and then be on our way. Remember we have still many miles to go.”

      We partook of some of the chicken pie and some buns, the latter so highly spiced they almost made me sneeze when I ate them, and then went on our way again.

      Our run had warmed us up, and now the sun beat down upon our heads mercilessly as we stalked through a tangle where the luxurious vegetation was knee-high. We were glad enough when we reached another woods, through which there was a well-defined, although exceedingly poor, wagon trail. Indeed, let me add, nearly all of the wagon roads in Cuba, so I have since been told, are wretched affairs at the best.

      “We ought to be in the neighborhood of Tiarriba,” said Alano about the middle of the afternoon.

      “We won’t dare enter the town,” I replied. “Those soldiers were going there, you