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Updated: May 12, 2025
The thought of this rising water and what it meant did not fill him with panic. He seemed more the prey of a deep and sullen resentment that his plans should be so gratuitously interfered with, that his approach to the Trunella should be so foolishly delayed, that so many cross-purposes should postpone and imperil his quest of Binhart.
"He went aboard the Trunella. He thought he 'd get down to Callao. But they tied the Trunella up at Guayaquil." "And you say he 's there now?" "Yes!" "And aboard the Trunella?" "Sure! He's got to be aboard the Trunella!" "Then why d' you say I can't get at him?" "Because Guayaquil and the Trunella and the whole coast down there is tied up in quarantine. That whole harbor's rotten with yellow-jack.
But he felt that long hours had passed since midnight, that it must be close to the break of morning. And the fear of being overtaken by daylight filled him with a new and more frantic energy. He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of the Trunella stood high above him and he could hear the lonely sound of her bells as the watch was struck.
Then he sat up in the narrow berth, for it began to dawn on him that the engines of the Trunella were not in motion. "Why are n't we under way?" "They 're having trouble up there, with the Commandante. We can't get off inside of an hour and anything's likely to happen in that time. That's why I 've got to get you out of here!" "Where 'll you get me?" asked Blake.
It it may not be the coolest place on earth, in this latitude, but it sure beats the stoke-hole!" And it was in this way, thirty minutes later, that Blake became a greaser in the engine-room of the Trunella. Already, far above him, he could hear the rattle and shriek of winch-engines and the far-off muffled roar of the whistle, rumbling its triumph of returning life.
Then he carefully replugged the bullet-hole, took up the oars again, and once more began to row. He rowed, always keeping his bow towards the far-off spangle of lights which showed where the Trunella lay at anchor. He rowed doggedly, determinedly. He rowed until his arms were tired and his back ached. But still he did not stop.
And the bewilderment of the entire situation was further increased when the Trunella swung in at Callao and the large-bodied man of mystery was peremptorily and none too gently put ashore. It was noted, however, that the first-class passenger who had stared down at him from the promenade-deck remained aboard the vessel as she started southward again.
And as his eyes strained through the gloom at the cluster of lights far ahead in the roadstead he told himself that it was there that his true goal lay, for it was there that the Trunella must ride at anchor and Binhart must be. Then he looked wonderingly back at the flotilla under the rail, for he realized that every movement and murmur of life there had come to a sudden stop.
Seven days after the Trunella swung southward from Callao Never-Fail Blake, renewed as to habiliments and replenished as to pocket, embarked on a steamer bound for Rio de Janeiro. He watched the plunging bow as it crept southward. He saw the heat and the gray sea-shimmer left behind him. He saw the days grow longer and the nights grow colder.
It was further remarked that he seemed more at ease when Callao was left well behind, although he sat smoking side by side with the operator in the wireless room until the Trunella had steamed many miles southward on her long journey towards the Straits of Magellan.
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