The last of the cargo was being taken aboard, the late passengers had arrived and were anxiously watching to see that their baggage was not lost.  As Mr. Preston stood talking with Tom near the gangplank, a clerical looking gentleman approached the circus man.

“I beg your pardon,” he began in mild accents, “but could you tell me where my stateroom is?” and he showed his ticket.  “I’m not used to traveling,” he needlessly added for that fact was very evident.  Mr. Preston informed him how to get to his berth, and the gentleman went on:  “Are you going all the way to Buenos Ayres?”

“No, but my friend is,” and the circus man nodded at Tom.

“Oh, I’m so glad!” the stranger exclaimed.  “Then I shall have someone of whom I can ask questions.  I am quite lost when I travel.”

“I’ll help you all I can,” volunteered Tom, “and I’ll show you to your stateroom now.”

“Ah, thank you.  Your name is—­”

“Tom Swift,” supplied the young inventor.

“Ah, yes, I believe I have read about your airships.  I am the Reverend Josiah Blinderpool.  I am taking a little vacation.  I trust we shall become good friends.”

“Humph, he’s a regular infant, to be away from civilization,” mused Tom, when he had showed the clergyman to the proper stateroom.  “He’ll get into trouble, he’s so innocent.”  If he could have seen that same “clergyman” double up with mirth when he had closed his stateroom door after him, Tom would not have felt so sure about that same “innocence.”

“To think that I was talking face to face with Sam Preston and he never tumbled to who I was!” exclaimed the newcomer softly.  “That’s rich!  Now if I play my cards right I shouldn’t be surprised but what they’d invite me to come along with them.  That would just suit me.  I wouldn’t have any trouble then, getting on the track of those giants.  The information Waydell got from that red-haired Foger chap wasn’t any too definite,” and once more the man wearing the garb of a minister chuckled.

“Well, I’ll say good-bye,” remarked Mr. Preston, a little later, when the warning bell had rung.  “I guess you’ll get along all right.  I haven’t seen a sign of Waydell, or any of his slick agents.  You’ll have no trouble I guess.”

But if the circus man could have seen the “clergyman” at that same time looking over letters addressed to “Hank Delby,” and signed “Wayland Waydell” he would not have been so confident.

Mr. Preston bade good-bye to his friends, the gangplank was hauled up, and a hoarse blast came from the whistle of the Calaban.

“Bless my pocketbook!” cried Mr. Damon.  “We’re off!”

“Yep, off t’ git dat big, giant orchard plant,” chimed in Eradicate.

“Hush!” exclaimed Tom, who did not like the use of the word “giant” even in that connection.  “Don’t tell everyone our business, Rad.”

“Dat’s right, Massa Tom.  I clean done forgot dat it’s a sort of secret.  I’ll keep mighty still ’bout it.”