Brandon of the Engineers

The man he wanted did not come, and by and by he determined to look for

him in the hotel. He went up an outside staircase from the patio, round

which the building ran, and had reached a balcony when he met Ida Fuller

coming down. She stopped with a smile.

"I am rather glad to see you," she said. "My father, who went on board

the American boat, has not come back as he promised, and the French lady

he left me with has gone."

"I'm going off to a cargo vessel to ask when they'll land our cement, and

we might find out what is keeping Mr. Fuller, if you don't mind walking

to the mole."

They left the hotel and shortly afterwards reached the mole, which

sheltered the shallow harbor where the cargo lighters were unloaded. The

long, smooth swell broke in flashes of green and gold phosphorescence

against the concrete wall, and the moon threw a broad, glittering track

across the sea. There was a rattle of cranes and winches and a noisy tug

was towing a row of barges towards the land. The measured thud of her

engines broke through the splash of water flung off the lighters' bows as

they lurched across the swell, and somebody on board was singing a

Spanish song. Farther out, a mailboat's gently swaying hull blazed with

electric light, and astern of her the reflection of a tramp steamer's

cargo lamp quivered upon the sea. By and by, Dick, who ascertained that

Fuller had not landed, hailed a steam launch, which came panting towards

some steps.

"I can put you on board the American boat, and bring you back if Mr.

Fuller isn't there," he said, and when Ida agreed, helped her into the

launch.

Then he took the helm while the fireman started the engine, and the craft

went noisily down the harbor. As they passed the end of the mole, Dick

changed his course, and the white town rose clear to view in the

moonlight behind the sparkling fringe of surf. The flat-topped houses

rose in tiers up a gentle slope, interspersed with feathery tufts of

green and draped here and there with masses of creepers. Narrow gaps of

shadow opened between them, and the slender square towers of the

cathedral dominated all, but in places a steep, red roof struck a

picturesque but foreign note.

"Santa Brigida has a romantic look at night," Dick remarked. "Somehow it

reminds me of pictures of the East."

"That is not very strange," Ida answered with a smile. "The flat roof and

straight, unbroken wall is the oldest type of architecture. Man naturally

adopted it when he gave up the tent and began to build."

"Yes," said Dick. "Two uprights and a beam across! You couldn't get

anything much simpler. But how did it come here?"