BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

      “And upset Don Hypolito’s little plans?”

      “Exactly.”

      “Speaking for myself,” said Philip, quietly, “there is nothing I should like better. I am with you, Jack. But Peter——”

      “Oh, I’ll come too,” said the doctor, serenely, “if it’s only to collect butterflies. While I’m on the spot, I may as well help. There’s sure to be fighting, and I can attend to the wounded. You can depend upon me, Jack; I’ll be your family physician, and physic the lot of you.”

      “Bravo!” cried Jack, his face lighting up as he grasped a hand of each. “And what do you say, Tim?”

      “Your story is queer,” remarked Tim, solemnly; “but mine is queerer. I’ll go with the greatest of pleasure, Jack; but it so happens I’m going out to the same place for The Morning Planet.”

      “What?”

      “It’s a coincidence, anyhow, Jack. I told you I knew about Don Hypolito.”

      “You did.”

      “Have you seen the evening papers?”

      “No; I was too excited at the idea of meeting you fellows to bother about reading.”

      “You are an ignorant person. While you’ve been fast in coming here, the telegraph’s been faster. From all accounts, there’s going to be a shindy in Cholacaca.”

      “Dolores!” gasped Jack, turning pale.

      “Oh, you needn’t be distressful,” said Fletcher, hastily; “there’s nothing much up as yet. I saw the telegram myself this morning. Don Hypolito has left Tlatonac, and gone to that other town—what d’ye call it? ‘Tis on the tip of my tongue.”

      “Acauhtzin.”

      “Yes, that’s the name. ‘Tis said he’s trying to stir up a row; but there’s no news of any consequence, at all!”

      “You’ve been ordered to the front, then, Tim?” said Philip, quickly.

      “You’ve hit it, my boy! I was in the office this morning, and the editor called me in. ‘D’ye want a trip?’ says he. ‘I don’t mind,’ says I. ‘There’s going to be trouble again in South America,’ says he. ‘What!’ says I, ‘are the Peruvians at it again?’ ‘No,’ says he, ‘it’s Cholacaca.’ ‘And where’s that?’ says I. ‘It’s more nor I know,’ says he. ‘Find out on the map, and hold yourself in readiness to go.’ So I left him at once, and looked up the map; found out all I could about the place, and at any minute I’m expecting to be sent off.”

      “Jove! how curious,” said Jack, reflectively. “I didn’t expect Don Hypolito to cause trouble quite so soon; but I saw things were shaping that way. It’s strange, Tim, that you should be going to the very place I wish you to go to. But Philip and Peter won’t like to come now.”

      “It doesn’t make the slightest difference to me,” said Philip, coolly. “In fact, like Xeres, I’m longing for a new pleasure. I’ve never been in a war, and should like the novelty of the thing. As to Peter! he’s coming to resume his profession on the battle-field.”

      “But what about my butterflies?” remonstrated Peter, who did not exactly relish the idea of being put in the forefront of the battle. He objected to the role of Uriah.

      “Oh, you can do all that sort of thing between times. The main thing is to get the better of Don Hypolito, and help Jack.”

      “Very well, Philip,” said the little man meekly. “I’ll come.”

      “But your practice,” hesitated Jack, not liking to be selfish.

      “Why, the poor little man hasn’t got one,” laughed Tim, digging Peter in the ribs. “Hasn’t he killed his patients long ago, and is now starving on five hundred a year, poor soul.”

      “It’s very kind of you all!” said Duval, looking at his three friends. “But I feel that I’m leading you into trouble.”

      “Not me,” declared Tim, stoutly, “‘tis the Morning Planet’s to blame, if I peg out.”

      “And I want some excitement,” said Philip, gaily; “and Peter wants butterflies; don’t you, doctor? We’re all free agents in the matter, Jack, and will go with pleasure.”

      “How strange,” said Peter, pensively; “we little thought at Bedford that——”

      “Peter, don’t be sentimental,” interrupted the baronet, jumping up. “We little thought our meeting would bring us good luck, if that is what you mean. I’m delighted at this new conquest of Mexico.”

      “We must start at once, Philip.”

      “My dear Jack, we shall start the day after to-morrow, in my yacht. She’s lying down at Yarmouth, in the Isle of Wight, and is ready to get steam up at a minute’s notice.”

      “Is she a fast boat?”

      “Fast!” echoed Philip, indignant at the imputation; “she’s the fastest steam-yacht afloat. Wait till she clears the Channel, then you’ll see what a clean pair of heels she can show.”

      “The quicker the better. I don’t want to arrive at Tlatonac and find Dolores missing.”

      “You won’t find a hair of her head touched. You shall marry her, Jack, and inherit the harlequin opal, and go and be priest to Huitzilopochtli, if you like. Now have a glass of wine.”

      Tim, who was always handy when liquor was about, had already filled the glasses and solemnly handed them to his friends.

      “To the health,” said Tim, standing up huge and burly, “of the future Mrs. Duval.”

      The toast was drunk with acclamation.

      Chapter III.

       “The Bohemian”

       Table of Contents

      Come, lads, and send the capstan round,

       Oh, Rio! Rio!

       Our good old barkey’s outward bound,

       Oh, Rio! Rio!

       So, shipmates, all look sharp and spry,

       To Poll and Nancy say good-bye,

       And tell them, if they pipe their eye,

       We’re bound for Rio Grande.

      The old man drank his grog and swore,

       Oh, Rio! Rio!

       He’d stay no longer slack ashore,

       Oh, Rio! Rio!

       “Come, tumble up, my lads,” sez he,

       “An’ weigh the anchor speedily,

       In twenty days the Cross we’ll see,

       We’re bound for Rio Grande.”

      “What do you think of her?” asked Philip, with justifiable pride.

      “She’s as near perfection as can be,” replied Jack, enthusiastically; “no two opinions about that, old fellow.”

      The Bohemian was a superbly modelled craft, and well deserved their admiration as she lay in Yarmouth Harbour, Isle of Wight. Schooner rigged fore and aft, she was close on two hundred tons yacht measurement, and one of the smartest vessels of her kind in British waters. Putting aside her speed when the screw was spinning, she was renowned for her sailing capabilities. With all sails set, and a fair wind, she could smoke through the water at the rate of fifteen knots an hour. Thanks to her owner’s wandering