The shell of 'em is always a light green before they're ripe.""Much obliged," said the other man, sitting down carefully."I didn't quite like to tell the folks at home they were olives unless I was sure about it.My name is Plunkett.I'm sheriff of Chatham County, Kentucky.
I've got extradition papers in my pocket authorizing the arrest of a man on this island.They've been signed by the President of this country, and they're in correct shape.
The man's name is Wade Williams.He's in the cocoa-nut raising business.What he's wanted for is the murder of his wife two years ago.Where can I find him?"The consul squinted an eye and looked through his rifle barrel.
"There's nobody on the island who calls himself 'Wil-liams,'" he remarked.
"Didn't suppose there was," said Plunkett mildly.
"He'll do by any other name."
"Besides myself," said Bridger, "there are only two Americans on Ratona -- Bob Reeves and Henry Morgan.""The man I want sells cocoanuts," suggested Plunkett.
"You see that cocoanut walk extending up to the point?" said the consul, waving his hand toward the open door."That belongs to Bob Reeves.Henry Morgan owns half the trees to loo'ard on the island.""One, month ago," said the sheriff, "Wade Williams wrote a confidential letter to a man in Chatham county, telling him where he was and how he was getting along.
The letter was lost; and the person that found it gave it away.They sent me after him, and I've got the papers.
I reckon he's one of your cocoanut men for certain.""You've got his picture, of course," said Bridger.
"It might be Reeves or Morgan, but I'd hate to think it.
They're both as fine fellows as you'd meet in an all-day auto ride.""No," doubtfully answered Plunkett; "there wasn't any picture of Williams to be had.And I never saw him myself.I've been sheriff only a year.But I've got a pretty accurate description of him.About 5 feet 11;dark-hair and eyes; nose inclined to be Roman; heavy about the shoulders; strong, white teeth, with none miss-ing; laughs a good deal, talkative; drinks considerably but never to intoxication; looks you square in the eye when talking; age thirty-five.Which one of your men does that description fit?"The consul grinned broadly.
"I'll tell you what you do," he said, laying down his rifle and slipping on his dingy black alpaca coat."You come along, Mr.Plunkett, -- and I'll take you up to see the boys.If you can tell which one of 'em your descrip-tion fits better than it does the other you have the advan-tage of me."
Bridger conducted the sheriff out and along the hard beach close to which the tiny houses of the village were distributed.Immediately back of the town rose sudden, small, thickly wooded hills.Up one of these, by means of steps cut in the hard clay, the consul led Plunkett.
the very verge of an eminence was perched, a two-room wooden cottage with a thatched roof.A Carib woman was washing clothes outside.The consul ushered the sheriff to the door of the room that over-looked the harbour.
Two men were in the room, about to sit down, in their shirt sleeves, to a table spread for dinner.They bore little resemblance one to the other in detail; but the general description given by Plunkett could have been justly applied to either.In height, colour of hair, shape of nose, build and manners each of them tallied with it.
They were fair types of jovial, ready-witted, broad-gauged Americans who had gravitated together for com-panionship in an alien land.
"Hello, Bridger" they called in unison at sight Of the consul."Come and have dinner with us!" And then they noticed Plunkett at his heels, and came forward with hospitable curiosity.
"Gentlemen," said the consul, his voice taking on unaccustomed formality, "this is Mr.Plunkett.Mr.
Plunkett -- Mr.Reeves and Mr.Morgan."
The cocoanut barons greeted the newcomer joyously.
Reeves seemed about an inch taller than Morgan, but his laugh was not quite as loud.Morgan's eyes were-deep brown; Reeves's were black.Reeves was the host and busied himself with fetching other chairs and calling to the Carib woman for supplemental table ware.It was explained that Morgan lived in a bamboo shack to.
loo'ard, but that every day the two friends dined together.Plunkett stood still during the preparations, looking about mildly with his pale-blue eyes.Bridger looked apologetic and uneasy.
At length two other covers were laid and the company-was assigned to places.Reeves and Morgan stood side by side across the table from the visitors.Reeves nodded genially as a signal for all to seat themselves.And then suddenly Plunkett raised his hand with a gesture of authority.He was looking straight between Reeves and Morgan.
"Wade Williams," he said quietly, "you are under arrest for murder."Reeves and Morgan instantly exchanged a quick, bright glance, the quality of which was interrogation, with a seasoning of surprise.Then, simultaneously they turned to the speaker with a puzzled and frank depre-cation in their gaze.
"Can't say that we understand you, Mr.Plunkett,"said Morgan, cheerfully."Did you say 'Williams'?""What's the joke, Bridgy?" asked Reeves, turning, to the consul with a smile.
Before Bridger could answer Plunkett spoke again.
"I'll explain," he said, quietly."One of you don't need any explanation, but this is for the other one.One of you is Wade Williams of Chatham County, Kentucky.
You murdered your wife on May 5, two years ago, after ill-treating and abusing her continually for five years.Ihave the proper papers in my pocket for taking you back with me, and you are going.We will return on the fruit steamer that comes back by this island to-morrow to leave its inspectors.I acknowledge, gentlemen, that I'm not quite sure which one of you is Williams.But Wade Williams goes back to Chatham County to-morrow.
I want you to understand that."
