CHAPTER IX
THE LITTLE BOX
Blake and Joe were too well-seasoned travelers to care to witnessmany of the scenes attendant upon the departure of their vessel.Though young in years, they had already crowded into their livesso many thrilling adventures that it took something out of theordinary to arouse their interest.
It was not that they were blase, or indifferent to novel sights,but travel was now, with them, an old story. They had been outWest, to the Pacific Coast, and in far-off jungle lands, to saynothing of their trip to the place of the earthquakes, and themore recent trip to the flooded Mississippi Valley.
So, once they had waved good-by to their friends andfellow-workers on the pier, they went to their stateroom to lookafter their luggage.
The two boys and Mr. Alcando had a room ample for their needs,and, though it would accommodate four, they were assured that thefourth berth would not be occupied, so no stranger would intrude.
When Blake and Joe went below Mr. Alcando did not follow. Eitherhe liked the open air to be found on deck, or he was not such aveteran traveler as to care to miss the sights and sounds ofdeparture. His baggage was piled in one corner, and that of theboys in other parts of the stateroom, with the exception of thetrunks and cameras, which were stowed in the hold, as not beingwanted on the voyage.
"Well, what do you think of him now?" asked Joe, as he sat down,for both he and Blake were tired, there having been much to dothat day.
"Why, he seems all right," was the slowly-given answer.
"Nothing more suspicious; eh?"
"No, I can't say that I've seen anything. Of course it was queerfor him to have someone in his room that time, and to get rid ofwhoever it was so quickly before we came in. But I suppose we allhave our secrets."
"Yes," agreed Joe. "And he certainly can't do enough for us. He isvery grateful."
This was shown in every way possible by the Spaniard. More thanonce he referred to the saving of his life in the runawayaccident, and he never tired of telling those whom he met what theboys had done for him.
It was truly grateful praise, too, and he was sincere in all thathe said. As Joe had remarked, the Spaniard could not do enough forthe boys.
He helped in numberless ways in getting ready for the trip, andoffered to do errands that could better be attended to by amessenger boy. He was well supplied with cash, and it was all Joeand Blake could do to prevent him from buying them all sorts ofarticles for use on their trip.
Passing a sporting goods store that made a specialty of fittingout travelers who hunted in the wilds, Mr. Alcando wanted topurchase for Blake and Joe complete camping outfits, portablestoves, guns, knives, patent acetylene lamps, portable tents,automatic revolvers and all sorts of things.
"But we don't need them, thank you!" Blake insisted. "We're notgoing to do any hunting, and we won't camp out if we can help it."
"Oh, but we might have to!" said Mr. Alcando, "then think howuseful these outfits would be."
"But we'd have to cart them around with us for months, maybe,"said Joe, "on the slim chance of using part of the things onenight. We don't need 'em."
"But I want to do something for you boys!" the Spaniard insisted."I am so grateful to you--"
"We know that, by this time," declared Blake. "Please don't getanything more," for their friend had already bought them somethings for their steamer trip.
"Ah, well then, if you insist," agreed the generous one, "but ifever you come to my country, all that I own is yours. I am ever inyour debt."
"Oh, you mustn't feel that way about it," Blake assured him."After all, you might have saved yourself."
"Hardly," returned the Spaniard, and he shuddered as he recalledhow near he had been to death on the bridge.
But now he and Blake and Joe were safely on a steamer on their wayto Panama. The weather was getting rather cool, for though it wasonly early November the chill of winter was beginning to makeitself felt.
"But we'll soon be where it's warm enough all the year around,"said Joe to Blake, as they arranged their things in the stateroom.
"That's right," said his chum. "It will be a new experience forus. Not quite so much jungle, I hope, as the dose we had of itwhen we went after the wild animals."
"No, and I'm glad of it," responded Joe. "That was a little toomuch at times. Yet there is plenty of jungle in Panama."
"I suppose so. Well, suppose we go up on deck for a breath ofair."
They had taken a steamer that went directly to Colon, making butone stop, at San Juan, Porto Rico. A number of tourists wereaboard, and there were one or two "personally conducted" parties,so the vessel was rather lively, with so many young people.
In the days that followed Joe and Blake made the acquaintance of anumber of persons, in whom they were more or less interested. Whenit became known that the boys were moving picture operators theinterest in them increased, and one lively young lady wanted Blaketo get out his camera and take some moving pictures of the ship'scompany. But he explained, that, though he might take the pictureson board the steamer, he had no facilities for developing orprinting the positives, or projecting them after they were made.
In the previous books of this series is described in detail themechanical process of how moving pictures are made, and to thosevolumes curious readers are referred.
The process is an intricate one, though much simplified from whatit was at first, and it is well worth studying.
On and on swept the _Gatun_, carrying our friends to thewonderland of that great "ditch" which has become one of themarvels of the world. Occasionally there were storms to interruptthe otherwise placid voyage, but there was only short discomfort.
Mr. Alcando was eager to reach the scene of operations, and afterhis first enthusiasm concerning the voyage had worn off heinsisted on talking about the detailed and technical parts ofmoving picture work to Joe and Blake, who were glad to give himthe benefit of their information.
"Well, you haven't seen anything more suspicious about him; haveyou?" asked Joe of his chum when they were together in thestateroom one evening, the Spaniard being on deck.
"No, I can't say that I have. I guess I did let my imagination runaway with me. But say, Joe, what sort of a watch have you thatticks so loudly?"
"Watch! That isn't my watch!" exclaimed his chum.
"Listen!" ordered Blake. "Don't you hear a ticking?"
They both stood at attention.
"I do hear something like a clock," admitted Joe. "But I don't seeany. I didn't know there was one in this stateroom."
"There isn't, either," said Joe, with a glance about. "But Isurely do hear something."
"Maybe it's your own watch working overtime."
"Mine doesn't tick as loud as that," and Blake pulled out histimepiece. Even with it out of his pocket the beat of the balancewheel could not be heard until one held it to his ear.
"But what is it?" asked Joe, curiously.
"It seems to come from Mr. Alcando's baggage," Blake said. "Yes,it's in his berth," he went on, moving toward that side of thestateroom. The nearer he advanced toward the sleeping place of theSpaniard the louder became the ticking.
"He's got some sort of a clock in his bed," Blake went on. "He mayhave one of those cheap watches, though it isn't like him to buythat kind. Maybe he put it under his pillow and forgot to take itout. Perhaps I'd better move it or he may not think it's there,and toss it out on the floor."
But when he lifted the pillow no watch was to be seen.
"That's funny," said Blake, musingly. "I surely hear that tickingin this berth; don't you?"
"Yes," assented Joe. "Maybe it's mixed up in the bedclothes."Before Blake could interfere Joe had turned back the coverings,and there, near the foot of the berth, between the sheets, was asmall brass-bound box, containing a number of metal projections.It was from this box the ticking sound came.
"Why--why!" gasped Blake. "That--that box--"
"What about it?" asked Joe, wonderingly.
&nbs
p; "That's the same box that was on his table the time we came in hisroom at the hotel--when we smelled the cigar smoke. I wonder whatit is, and why he has it in his bed?"
The Moving Picture Boys at Panama; Or, Stirring Adventures Along the Great Canal Page 9
