Herran tugged at the tangles of his bushy beard. “I hear that some peons have left Bogota to fight the Yankees on the coast,” he said. “But—it is nothing.”
“Well, what shall we do?”
The general shrugged his shoulders. Miranda fanned himself more vigorously than ever.
“It is not important, Senor,” he said impatiently. “These people are good peoples; they are not caymans.”
“Perhaps it is better to wait before you go to Bogota,” persisted Herran.
“Wait in the river?” angrily demanded the doctor.
“I don’t believe there is any danger. I love this country,” said Una. “Let’s go to Bogota, Uncle Harold.”
“Heavens, child!” exclaimed Mrs. Quayle tremulously, the heavy gold rings that adorned her fingers clicking together in dismay. “With all these savage, half-dressed natives about, threatening the lives of innocent Americans—and poor Mr. Parmelee down with this terrible fever——”
“I am not,” feebly protested Andrew.