“Did they have any?”
“Oh yes, sir, they had some. As much as a pint apiece, in the two shops. They wanted to sell it by the ounce.”
Dick and I laughed, though my mirth was not care-free. I had visions of being stuck at this place until Ropes made a journey to Madrid and back, Carmona's car slipping away long before we were ready.
“I was afraid it was hopeless to look for petrol here,” I said, striving for resignation, even though I saw Mariquita going upstairs with two battered tins of hot water.
“Not yet, sir. A man who heard me asking for moto-naphtha at the chemist's, advised me to try the cemetery.”
“The cemetery? You misunderstood the word.”
“No, sir; it was cemetery. And what's more, he said the Mayor keeps it there to kill lobsters.”
This statement, delivered somewhat nervously, was received with derision.
“The fellow was stuffing you,” said Dick.
“I don't think so, sir.”