Chairs scraped back and an exodus from the dining room ensued. Outside, the lusty voice of the negro bawled. Soon he was back, and at his heels strode the lithe Pedro and the quiet Lourenço. They ran their eyes over the group, then stood looking inquiringly at their employer.
"Be seated, men. Roll cigarettes if you like," said the coronel. Coolly they did both. Pedro, catching Tim's friendly grin, flashed a quick smile in return. Lourenço, unsmiling, looked squarely into each man's face in turn and seemed satisfied with what he saw. Both then glanced around as if missing some one.
"Your friend José has left us," the coronel informed them, dryly, interpreting the look. "He disappeared in the night."
"Ah! That is why one of our canoes is gone," said Pedro. "We are ready to start."
"You mistake," the old gentleman laughed. "We do not want him back. Nothing else is missing."
Whereat Pedro looked slightly surprised. Lourenço's lips curved in a faint grin. Neither made any further comment.
The coronel plunged at once into the business for which they had been summoned. Succinctly he stated the purpose of the North Americans in coming here, pointed out their need of guides—and stopped there. He said nothing of the dangers ahead, mentioned no reward, did not even ask the men whether they would go. He merely lit a fresh cigar and leaned back in his chair.
A silence followed. Again Lourenço looked searchingly into the face of each American. Pedro contemplated the opposite wall, taking occasional puffs from his cigarette. At length Knowlton suggested, tentatively:
"We will pay well—"
Both the bushmen frowned. The coronel spoke in a tone of mild reproof: