"You seem to forget that this here town you 're heefin' about lies a good thirty-five miles up the Guayas River. And if I 'm gun-runnin' for Alfaro, as you say, I naturally ain't navigatin' streams where they 'd be able to pick me off the bridge-deck with a fishin'-pole!"
"But you 're going to get as close to Guayaquil as you can, and you know it."
"Do I?" said the man with the up-tilted cigar.
"Look here, Pip," said Blake, leaning closer over the table towards him. "I don't give a tinker's dam about Alfaro and his two-cent revolution. I 'm not sitting up worrying over him or his junta or how he gets his ammunition. But I want to get into Guayaquil, and this is the only way I can do it!"
For the first time Tankred turned and studied him.
"What d' you want to get into Guayaquil for?" he finally demanded. Blake knew that nothing was to be gained by beating about the bush.
"There's a man I want down there, and I 'm going down to get him!"
"Who is he?"
"That's my business," retorted Blake.
"And gettin' into Guayaquil's your business!" Tankred snorted back.