natives commenced transferring bananas from the cars to the fruit racks at the water's edge; here they would later be picked up by the river boat of the big fruit company which purchased the output of many Ulua River plantations, afterward shipping the bananas to the States on its own steamers.
Condon saw George Armstrong standing to the right of the train across the river, and, for some unknown reason he disliked the man more than ever. There was no real reason why he should dislike and distrust Armstrong. Yet he did dislike him, and never, from the first moment his eyes rested upon the man, had he trusted him. For two years now Condon had known the manager of the Royal Palm Plantation Company, and for that length of time some instinct had whispered that the other would be a dangerous foe.
True, Armstrong had always evinced the greatest friendliness, frequently coming across the river, which separated the plantations, to visit Condon. And occasionally—when common courtesy demanded—Condon had returned the visits.
Bart Condon had been in Honduras one year longer than Armstrong, and this year’s experience as manager of the plantation of which he was majority stockholder had taught him many things of value, which he had passed on to the newcomer. But Armstrong's company was stronger financially than Condon’s, and was desirous of expanding. So, for three months now, Armstrong had been trying to buy the Tropical Gem. And for nearly that length of time the Tropical Gem had been having trouble.
BUT it was only this morning that Condon had first commenced wondering what connection, if any, there might be between Armstrong’s desire for the Tropical Gem and the trouble which had come to that plantation.
Of course such thoughts were silly. Unworthy. He should be ashamed of himself. . . . And yet. . . .
Standing where he was, in the shelter of the tall banana plants which at a distance resembled a forest of green trees, Condon knew Armstrong had not seen him. And for some reason, which he himself did not understand, he did not want the other man to see him this morning.
Bart Condon turned and slowly made his way from the river to a trail about two hundred yards away. There he paused to watch some men cutting fruit which would be carried by mule cart to the river, the railroad being employed only for the longer hauls.
Finally he turned to his pony, fastened to a young avacado tree, mounted and rode away. Twenty minutes later he was at plantation headquarters.
An hour after reaching headquarters Condon was sitting at his office desk, a slender young native opposite him. This man—Juan Hernandez—one of Condon’s foremen, possessed intelligence above the average. He was one of the very few natives of that section of Honduras who boasted pure Spanish blood, but at the same time he understood thoroughly the mixed breeds in whose veins there flowed the blood of African, Indian, Chinese and others. to say nothing of the full-blood negroes from Jamaica, Barbadoes, and elsewhere.
Once facing Hernandez, Condon lost no time in getting to the subject:
"The men—they are very much upset?"
Hernandez nodded.
"They are, Mr. Condon," he replied in perfect English, thanks to a States education. They are whispering that there is a curse upon the plantation; that you are the cause of it; that the spirits are displeased with you, and I don't know what else. They"
