"Ah! But the war has passed, senhores. Senhor Schwandorf was not a soldier of Germany—he has been in Brazil for more than six years."
"War's over. That's right," McKay agreed. "But don't bother to send word. We'll find him if he's at the hotel. Going there ourselves. Glad to have met you, sir. Good luck!"
"And to you also luck, Capitao and Tenente," smiled the official. McKay and Knowlton strode out.
"Guess this is the hotel," hazarded McKay, glancing at a house which rose slightly above the others. "I'll go in and charter rooms. You get Tim and have somebody rustle our impedimenta up here."
He turned aside. Knowlton trudged on through the glare of sunset to the river bank where Tim and the army of Remate de Males still loafed up and down, the admired of all beholders.
"All right, Tim. We're moving to the hotel. No more war, I see."
"Lord love ye, no," grinned Tim. "Me and this feller are gittin' on fine. He's Joey—I forgit the rest of his names; he's got about a dozen more and they sound like stones rattlin' around inside a can. But Joey's a right guy. After me tour o' duty ends he's goin' to buy me a drink and maybe introjuce me to a lady friend o' his. Want to join the party, Looey?"
"Not unless the ladies are better looking than these," laughed the ex-lieutenant, moving his head toward the pipe-smoking females.
"Faith, I was thinkin' that same meself. Unless he can dig up somethin' fancier 'n what I see so far, I'd as soon have Mademoiselle."
"Who?"