That same afternoon, Mr. Heatherington and Kenneth went on board the Paloma. She looked a wholesome, weatherly craft in spite of her obvious foreign build, while her accommodation was both extensive and luxurious. Evidently the Count was fond of making a lavish display when afloat.
"Where is the captain?" asked Mr. Heatherington, of a swarthy young officer who met the visitors at the head of the accommodation ladder.
"He's not aboard, señor," was the reply. "He return will ver' soon. We show you ze ship."
Kenneth had expected to find the vessel manned by a piratical-looking crowd of Dagoes, rigged out in picturesque garb, each man wearing earrings and carrying a formidable knife in the sash that did duty for a belt. What he did see was a crew differing little in appearance from that of a British yacht. The men wore canvas jumpers and trousers and scarlet stocking-caps. Instead of being fat and reeking with garlic, they were for the most part slim and alert. Only their olivine complexions, crisp, curly hair, and their speech betrayed their nationality, while apparently their supply of garlic had ran out, for the yacht reeked of nothing but oakum and the oily fumes from the engine-room.
Mr. Heatherington had hardly begun his tour of inspection when a boat came alongside with the Paloma's skipper. He was a short, thick-set Englishman, with a square firm jaw and choleric blue eyes.
"Good afternoon, Captain," said Mr. Heatherington. "I have an order to inspect the yacht. I don't know your name."
"Gregory, sir; George Gregory is my tally. Extra Master, at your service. Very good, Lopez," he added in Spanish, addressing the Third Officer. "You can go; I will show these gentlemen round."
"Is she a good sea-boat with all that top-hamper?" asked Kenneth's father, indicating the towering bridge and high-decked houses.
"Fairish," admitted Captain Gregory. "She rolls a goodish bit, I admit, but for a Dago-built craft—she was built back in '09 in Barcelona—she's not so dusty."
"What made you take command of a Spanish yacht, might I ask?"
Captain Gregory shrugged his massive shoulders—a gesture he had acquired by reason of his association with an Iberian crew.
"Too many Masters for too few billets in the British Mercantile Marine," he observed. "Case of had to, sir. The Count isn't a bad sort as foreigners go. He got me so as to lick his crew into shape. I reckon I've done it," he added grimly.
"Troublesome?" queried Mr. Heatherington.
"Bit at first," admitted Captain Gregory. "One fellow threatened me with a knife—me, an Extra Master, mind you. He felt sorry for himself by the time I'd finished with him. Now the hands are as mild as lambs and skip like young rams when they're ordered to. Thinking of chartering the Paloma, sir? Business or pleasure cruise?"
"Pleasure," replied Kenneth's father briefly. "By the by, do you think you could send the crew home and sign on a British crew?"
"I'd do it like a shot, sir," was Captain Gregory's reply, "only the Count wouldn't hear of it. They won't give any trouble, sir; and when you get used to them——" he broke off, racking his brains to find words in his vocabulary to complete his remarks. "You just will," he concluded.
The next day Mr. Heatherington signed the documents agreeing to charter the S.Y. Paloma for three months; and a week later the vessel weighed and proceeded on her lengthy voyage to the South Pacific.
CHAPTER II. DANGER AHEAD
"So this is the Pacific," remarked Peter Arkendale, as the Paloma cleared Panama and shaped a course across the rock-infested bay of that name. "Don't think much of it."
Peter Arkendale was a broad-shouldered youth, only half an inch shorter than his chum Kenneth.
"Why, what's wrong with it?" asked the latter.
"Nothing, except that it's like the Atlantic," was the reply. "I imagined quiet water, blue skies, lagoons, coco-nut palms, an' all that sort of thing. We don't seem to strike any adventures, old son."
Kenneth had to agree to that. The voyage had been comparatively uneventful. Moderate weather had been experienced; the crew were patterns of civility and seemed well up to the work; routine had been carried out without a hitch. The monotony of the whole business, except for the novel experience of passing through the stupendous Panama Canal, had become thoroughly irksome. Kenneth frankly admitted that Peter's companionship alone saved him from wishing that he had not left school.
"Catch!" suddenly exclaimed Kenneth, throwing his chum a tennis ball.
Peter missed it.
"Butter-fingers!" ejaculated young Heatherington, as the ball, slipping through Peter's hands, lodged on top of the boiler-casing.
"The roll of the ship put me off," declared Peter, who prided himself on being one of the best fielders of the school First Eleven. "Where did it go?"
"Up there," replied Kenneth. "Give me a leg-up, and I'll get it."
The Paloma's boiler-casing was a steel structure nearly ten feet in height, being considerably higher than is the case in most vessels of her size. In the after-end were two small metal doors through which access to the boiler-room was gained by means of vertical ladders. On the top of the casing were "fidleys" and skylights, and a wide seemingly unbroken expanse of steel plating extending the whole width of the structure. In ordinary circumstances access to the top of the boiler-casing would be possible by means of iron rungs bolted to the wall. There were none, but there were evidences that at one time there had been the usual means of gaining the top of the casing.
Clambering upon Peter's shoulders, Kenneth prepared to spring. Before he could do so, Lopez, the Third Officer, appeared upon the scene.
"Not allowed, señores," he exclaimed, as he peremptorily clutched Kenneth's wrist and compelled him to descend. "It ver' dangerous to climb up dar."
"Rot!" ejaculated Kenneth scornfully. "We've lost a ball, and I'm jolly well going to find it."
Lopez, hitherto suave, gave the lad a vindictive glance.
"You no go up dar," he reiterated. "Eef you vish I send man to seek-a ball—but not you."
At the moment the missing object settled the business by rolling over the edge of the casing. With a smile, Lopez picked it up and handed it to his present employer's son.
"What got his rag out, I wonder?" asked Peter, as the Third went aft. "I don't see why we shouldn't climb the beastly thing if we want to. I vote we do."
"After dinner, then," agreed his chum. "Grub's ready now."
The meal over, the two lads returned to the deck, but their plans were already thwarted. A couple of hands were busily engaged in painting the casing, slapping on the paint so lavishly that there seemed no likelihood of its drying for days.
"I scent a mystery here," declared Kenneth. "If it didn't look like sneaking, I'd mention it to the skipper."
"We needn't do that," rejoined Peter. "You wait till the paint's dry, and we'll get Lopez's rag out by dancing on the top of his precious boiler-casing."
They remained for some time watching the two Spaniards at work, obviously to the men's annoyance. Presently Lopez passed, and said something to the hands in a low voice and went for'ard. In about an hour the casing had been painted from the deck to a height of about five feet. Then the men knocked off.