“They don’t seem to be happy to see us,” replied the Captain, shortly.

“Not happy!” exclaimed Mr. Howland, who began to feel that the situation approximated lese-majeste.  “Not happy?  Confound them!  When we’re bringing guns to support their mangy and tottering Government!”

“Well,” replied the young commander, who scented trouble and thought of the party on board, “they don’t seem to be, anyway.”

A sharp hail rang out from the nearest gun-boat, the flag-ship.

“What vessel is that, and whither bound?”

Mr. Howland tore at his collar and stuttered in purple fury.

“Impudence!  Impertinence!  Lunacy!  Here, Captain, tell them they know very well what ship this is—­and—­and—­wait!” as Dan raised the megaphone to his lips.  “Don’t waste time talking to the villains.  Tell them—­tell them to go—­well, you know what to tell them.”

And Dan demonstrated that he did—­so vigorously, so eloquently that the answer came in the shape of a blank shot across the Tampico’s bows.

Dan looked gravely at the owner.

“The thing is pretty plain, Mr. Howland,” he said; “the navy has evidently joined the insurrection.  Why they have not bombarded the city I don’t know; but you can be sure they are going to.  We will have to stop,” and without waiting for a reply he jerked the signal indicator, to cease headway.  Mr. Howland was at no pains to conceal his chagrin.

“A mighty bad stumbling-block; a mighty bad stumbling-block if the navy has revolted, Captain Merrithew.  If this Government falls, it means a great deal to me; means the loss of considerable money—­and prestige.  I must look to you to land those guns, Captain.”

Dan did not reply, but gazed earnestly toward the city as though meditating a dash.  But that was out of the question, considering those aboard.  As the chug of the engines died out and the cough of the exhaust hit the glooming air and the clumsy black hull slid to a gurgling standstill, a gig was lowered from the El Toro, the flag-ship, and the officer, Admiral Congosto, was soon stumbling up the gangway of the freighter.  Mr. Howland was inclined to have him thrown overboard at once, but the better counsel of the Captain prevailed.

“Very well,” growled the ruffled owner, “have your fling.”

Admiral Congosto was a pompous Spaniard, obese, with bristling brows and moustaches, who wrinkled his forehead and winked his eyes constantly.

“So,” he said, with unctuous dignity, as Dan met him at the rail, “the Capitan?”

“Yes; the Capitan,” and Dan bowed courteously.

“You are for San Blanco with supplies?—­and—­and—­ah!” The Admiral completed his sentence with a significant shrug of the shoulder.  Dan was equally cautious.

“We were putting in for water, for fresh water,” he said.  “Our condenser’s filled with bread crumbs or something, and we can’t make enough for our boilers, let alone drinking.”