The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume

them good-bye for the present. He had to go to a meeting of the Junta in order to confer about the fleet which had remained away from Tlatonac a long time.

      “And it will remain a longer time,” said Jack, as they emerged on to the street. “The navy is going to revolt to Don Hypolito.”

      “I believe that’s true, but the old chap doesn’t think so. He’ll have his eyes open soon, or my name’s not Tim. Where’s Philip?”

      “Saying good-bye to Doña Eulalia,” replied Jack, smiling. “Ah, by the way, here he is! Well, Sir Philip Cassim, Baronet, I see you are stabbed by a wench’s black eye!”

      “A little harmless conversation,” protested Philip, guiltily; “don’t make a mountain out of a mole-hill, Jack. I can take care of my heart; but your charming brunette friend has fascinated Peter.”

      “I don’t see how that can be,” said the doctor, dryly, “seeing I couldn’t understand a word she was saying.”

      “The language of the eye, Peter. You must learn that. It is more interesting than butterflies.”

      “So you seem to think.”

      “Jack,” said Tim, suddenly, “before we go to your cabin, take us to the telegraph-office, if there is one here.”

      “Of course there is one here. You want to wire to your editor?”

      “Not yet! I want to arrange matters with the officials. There’s going to be trouble here in a week, anyhow.”

      “So soon as that?” said Philip, starting. He had not heard the conversation with Don Miguel.

      “Aye, and sooner,” replied Duval, prophetically. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Philip; for, as sure as I stand here, news is now on its way to Tlatonac of the loss of the navy.”

      “In that case,” said the baronet, quietly, “it was a good thing I brought all those arms with me. You’ll have to learn how to shoot, Peter.”

      “Butterflies and beetles,” said Peter, absently. He was thinking of the morrow’s sport.

      Chapter VI.

       Chalchuih Tlatonac

       Table of Contents

      This is a country of magic; for, lo! in the heat of the noontide,

       Silent and lone is the city, no footfall is heard in the highways,

       Only the grasshopper shrilling, the tinkle of water clear gushing,

       And rarely the sigh of the breezes, that stir the white dust on the pavements.

       Magic! no magic but custom; for this is the time of siesta;

       When sinks the sun, then the city will waken to love and to laughter;

       Lightly the gay senoritas will dance in the cold-shining moonbeams,

       Flirt fan, flash eyes, and beckon, to lovers who long for their kisses,

       Then will the castanets rattle, the little feet dance the bolero,

       And serenades sigh at the windows, in scorning of jealous duennas.

       Magic is not of the noonday; when glimmers the amorous twilight,

       Then is the time of enchantment, of love, and of passionate lovers.

      Cocom was completely ignorant of his real age. He might have been a hundred, and he certainly looked as though he had completed his century. Long ago he had left off counting the flying years and meditating on the mutability of human life. In fact, he had changed so little that it is doubtful whether he believed in mutability at all. Wrinkled he was, it is true, and slightly bent, but his black eyes twinkled with the fire of youth, and he enjoyed his meals. These things argue juvenility, and, as Cocom possessed them, he evidently knew the secret of immortality. Perhaps he had found that fountain of youth spoken of by Ponce de Leon. If so, it had affected his soul not his body. He looked like Methuselah.

      Yet he was wonderfully active considering his years, and undertook to introduce Peter to the butterflies of Central America. Arrayed in his white cotton drawers and shirt, with his pink zarape gracefully draped over his bent shoulders, he smoked a long black cigar, and waited the orders of the “Americanos” in stolid silence.

      Peter was affectionately handling his butterfly-net, Tim was finishing his breakfast, and Jack, in a smart riding-dress, was slashing his high boots with his whip, impatient to get away. They were looking at Cocom, who had just arrived, and waiting for Philip, who, as usual, was late for breakfast.

      “He looks too old to be of much use,” said the doctor, disconsolately; “why couldn’t Don Miguel send me a man instead of a mummy?”

      “Perhaps the mummy is well up in entomology!”

      “He ought to be that same!” cried Tim, with his mouth full; “he’s had plenty of time to learn, anyhow. Ask the old cocoanut his age, Jack.”

      “Don’t you take liberties with his name, Tim. Cocom was a king of Mayapan; and this, I presume, is his descendant.”

      “Royalty out at elbows!” said Peter, blandly.

      “It’s a king, is it?” remarked Tim, staring at the Indian. “He looks a mighty second-hand sort of article. I should be a king myself. Wasn’t one of my ancestors King of Cork?”

      “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Philip, entering at this moment; “where did you pick up Methuselah?”

      “This is Cocom, my guide,” said the doctor, proudly introducing Cocom, who removed his sombrero with a graceful sweep.

      “Oh, you are going to hunt the ferocious beetle, are you not? What is he, Jack? An Aztec?”

      “No; a descendant of the Mayas.”

      “A dethroned king—no less.”

      “You know the country round here, Cocom?” said Philip, taking no notice of Tim’s joke.

      “Yes, Señor Americano; all! all!” replied Cocom, with grave dignity. “Don Pedro will be safe with me.”

      “You can show him butterflies?”

      “Señor, I can show him butterflies, ants, beetles, wasps; all the Señor desires to behold.”

      “That being so, Peter, you had better get away,” said Jack, impatiently. “I want to be off, and must see you started first; you can’t be trusted to run the show on your own account.”

      “I’m quite ready. Good-bye, boys; I will see you this afternoon.”

      “Not me,” said Duval, brusquely; “I’m off to Maraquando’s estancia.”

      “Take care of the sun, Peter,” warned Philip, kindly; “your head isn’t over strong.”

      Peter indignantly repudiated this imputation on his cranium, and forthwith followed Cocom out of the house, gleefully looking forward to a pleasant day. His ideas of pleasure were singularly limited.

      “He’s quite safe, isn’t he, Jack?” said Philip anxiously. “I don’t want Peter to get into trouble.”

      “Oh, Cocom will look after him. I know the old man well. He is devoted to Don Miguel, who once saved his life. Cocom will sit on a bank and watch Peter gasping after butterflies. The exercise will do the doctor’s liver good.”

      “You are off yourself now, I suppose?”

      “Yes, I’ve been waiting for you. Really, Philip, you are the laziest man I know.”

      “This house that Jack built is the castle of indolence,” explained Philip, sitting down to table. “Go, my