“I said you should take care of your things the way I do,” he roared again. “See,” he pushed his hand inside his topcoat pocket, “Always know where my things—” the end of the sentence was lost in a sputter, as Adair MacKenzie searched frantically in pocket after pocket for his visitor’s pass. It was gone!
“W-w-why, somebody’s picked my pockets. Can’t allow this. Where’s a policeman? You, you, why don’t you do something instead of standing there and laughing?” Adair shook his cane at Walker Jamieson who was grinning broadly at the spectacle of the old man fuming and sputtering now, not at his own negligence, but at the inefficiency of a government that would allow such things to happen. His tirade against Nan and her carelessness were utterly forgotten.
But it wasn’t necessary for Walker to do anything. Adair, in his outburst, railing against governments in general now, calling down the wrath of the gods on the heads of all policemen, and expressing himself most forcibly on the subject of newspaper men in particular, attracted a crowd. Shortly, English and Spanish words were being flung this way and that and everyone was arguing, but what it was all about no one seemed to know.
“Why, daddy, what has happened?” Alice having heard the excitement from her seat in the office where her father had left her had worked her way through the crowd, and now put a restraining hand on his arm.
Immediately, he was quiet. “I’m sorry, dear,” he looked down at her shamefacedly, “but these blundering Mexicans have lost not only that poor young girl’s,” he pointed to Nan with his cane, “visitor’s pass, but mine too. It’s an outrage! That’s what it is, an outrage. And I won’t stand for it.”
“Oh, Walker,” Alice turned to the young reporter now, “What shall we do?”
“I beg your pardon, Miss,” the voice was that of a Texas Ranger with a big ten-gallon hat who had watched the whole scene with some amusement, “but if you’ll step right over to the offices there” he nodded in the direction of the door from which Alice had emerged a moment before, “Mr. Nogales will take care of you.”
“Thanks,” Walker acknowledged the information, grinned, as though he was sharing a joke with the stranger, took both Alice and her father by the arm, and, with Nan, worked his way out of the crowd.
“It’s a difficult problem.” Lozario Nogales gave a slight Spanish accent to his words as he spoke to the Americans who, a few moments after the scene above, were ushered into his office. “You see, it’s like this—” he spoke slowly and fingered a pencil as he chose his words, for English did not come any too easily to him.
“Nonsense! No difficulties at all.” Adair MacKenzie was always impatient with slow speech, “all you have to do is write out another of those cards for each of us. Take you a minute. They’re nothing but a lot of silly red tape anyway. If I had my way about it, there would be no passports, no customs, no visitors’ passes, no anything that impedes free movement of people across the borders. It’s all foolishness the way you Mexicans do these things.” Thus, with utter inconsistency, Adair MacKenzie, in a moment’s time placed the whole burden of border regulations in the laps of the Mexicans.