"You speak truth—there was. Now there is not. The world moves and times change. Years ago foreigners came into Brazil, helped themselves to the seed of our wild trees, and planted it in Ceylon and the Malay region. That seed now bears such fruit that the world is flooded with rubber. Ten years ago, senhores, a ton sold for six thousand five hundred dollars. Now, in this year nineteen-twenty, the price is only one-thirteenth of what it was in those days. It scarcely pays for the gathering. I hope you have not come expecting to make fortunes in rubber."
"No. We are here to find a race of men known as Red Bones."
The coronel's brows lifted. They kept on lifting, and he opened his lips twice without speaking. After a long stare at Knowlton he looked at McKay, at Tim, and finally at José. A frown grew on his face. And the Americans, following his look at the Peruvian, were surprised to see that José himself was staring blankly at the speaker.
"José Martinez!" snapped the coronel, leveling a finger pistollike at the puntero. "What devil's game are you working now?"
José recovered himself and lifted his coffee cup.
"I do not understand you, Nunes," he replied, languidly. "I am but the humble puntero of the crew engaged by these señores. My only work has been to earn my pay. And you may ask el capitan whether I have earned it."
"Ay, he has," corroborated McKay. "Killed two of his own crew in our defense."
The coronel's jaw dropped. He blinked as if disbelieving his ears.
"He—José? Not possible!" he stuttered. "José—this man—defended you against his companions?"
"Exactly."