“Suit yourself,” the agent shrugged. “You got a long wait ahead probably.”
“We can’t afford to lose any more time. I’ve practically decided to go on to the Bogota office.”
Baronni straightened in his swivel chair. “Some company officials live there, but the office is closed most of the time,” he informed the Scout leader. “If you’re dead set on pulling out of here, you’d have a better chance of learning about your friend at Santa Marta.”
“Very well. How do we get there? Can you help us, or shall we make arrangements ourselves?”
Ferd Baronni gazed steadily at Mr. Livingston a moment. “I’ll make the arrangements, if you’re determined to go,” he said. “I got a friend who runs a sled boat between here and Calamar. When you get there you can take a boat.”
“Fine!”
“Be at the dock tomorrow at seven,” the agent advised, writing an address on a slip of paper.
The Scouts thanked him for his trouble, and went back to the hotel to pack. Their spirits soared at the prospect of leaving Cartagena. At dinner however, Jack noticed that Mr. Livingston was unusually quiet.
“Worried?” he inquired.
“Not exactly.”