a barkeeper, he's a teetotaler," Carr corrected, "and he's the
greatest filibuster alive. He knows these waters as you know Broadway,
and he's the salt of the earth. I did him a favor once; sort of
mouse-helping-the-lion idea. Just through dumb luck I found out about
this expedition. The government agents in New York found out I'd found
out and sent for me to tell. But I didn't, and I didn't write the story
either. Doyle heard about that. So, he asked me to come as his guest,
and he's promised that after he's landed the expedition and the arms I
can write as much about it as I darn please."

"Then you're a reporter?" said David.

"I'm what we call a cub reporter," laughed Carr. "You see, I've always
dreamed of being a war correspondent. The men in the office say I dream
too much. They're always guying me about it. But, haven't you noticed,
it's the ones who dream who find their dreams come true. Now this isn't
real war, but it's a near war, and when the real thing breaks loose, I
can tell the managing editor I served as a war correspondent in the
Cuban-Spanish campaign. And he may give me a real job!"

"And you _like_ this?" groaned David.

"I wouldn't, if I were as sick as you are," said Carr, "but I've a
stomach like a Harlem goat." He stooped and lowered his voice. "Now,
here are two fake filibusters," he whispered. "The men you read about in
the newspapers. If a man's a _real_ filibuster, nobody knows it!"

Coming toward them was the tall man who had knocked David out, and the
little one who had wanted to tie him to a tree.

"All they ask," whispered Carr, "is money and advertisement. If they
knew I was a reporter, they'd eat out of my hand. The tall man calls
himself Lighthouse Harry. He once kept a lighthouse on the Florida
coast, and that's as near to the sea as he ever got. The other one is a
daredevil calling himself Colonel Beamish. He says he's an English
officer, and a soldier of fortune, and that he's been in eighteen
battles. Jimmy says he's never been near enough to a battle to see the
red-cross flags on the base hospital. But they've fooled these Cubans.
The Junta thinks they're great fighters, and it's sent them down here to
work the machine guns. But I'm afraid the only fighting they will do
will be in the sporting columns, and not in the ring."

A half dozen sea-sick Cubans were carrying a heavy, oblong box. They
dropped it not two yards from where David lay, and with a screw-driver
Lighthouse