Thomson Burtis

“ Don Rafael bent his head in grave thought. There was a tribute in the steel-blue eyes when he lifted them.
“I thank you, señor. I need you.”
Day and night, Stanley Graydon carried on his grim fight. Under his unsparing leadership, his peon laborers learned to police their grounds and huts as though the god of kitchen police was their patron saint. They fought the mosquitoes in their breeding spots, as though they were chastising the devil in person. They fought with oil and lime and shovels to drive the plague from their borders. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Outside the grilled door of his room, José squatted on his heels, smoking innumerable cigarettes from the blue packet that is a hall mark of the tropics. His naked machete hung in a rope sling at his side. In the morning José gave surly answers, Captain Navarro had been delirious—weak with fever. José ended this disquieting intelligence by drawing his blunt thumb across his wrinkled neck. ”

“ There was no flinching from the steel-blue eyes of Don Rafael.
He was tempted to protest that he had been unarmed; that the wound of young Captain Navarro could only have been inflicted by a wild pistol shot from one of his own friends, but at his first words Don Rafael silenced him.
“Enough! It shall be as you advise, Colonel Henriquez. He will remain a prisoner here. On the outcome of my son’s wound shall await the final decision. If the good God wills that my son shall die——” He halted. The silence was significant.
“José!” ”

“ 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. ”

“ Graydon’s calls for Don Rafael rang insistently. The maid who finally came gave one affrighted look and bolted, shrieking her terror. Then came the old don, who listened, with troubled eyes, to his prisoner’s startling proposal.
“Put me in charge of your men, Don Rafael. I know how to handle men, white or brown. I know how to fight cholera. ”

“ You must also remember that Colonel Henriquez’s conduct would contribute to your son’s sensational denunciations.”
“Then you would not consent to send a radio through to the admiral, outlining these reports?” Stanley Graydon broke in impulsively. “It would be of untold value if the squadron should cruise down this way and be on hand for any developments.”
“I would hardly care to endanger my reputation in the service by any such ill-timed action,” came the curt reply. “A man’s reputation in the service means a great deal more to him, Mr. Graydon, than a civilian could possibly comprehend.” ”

“ The rest of the day passed without incident, while he gathered information about Santander’s commercial life from the loquacious manager of the hotel. By deft questioning he also learned that the bellicose colonel was Henriquez, commandant of the Palace Guard. The youngster was Captain Juan Navarro, whose father, Don Rafael, was a wealthy landowner on the shores of Ramona Bay, and highly esteemed throughout Santander. ”