“Apparently the only one who knows anything about him is that old missionary who lives on the hill,” Ken said thoughtfully. “And he won’t see us.”
A week ago, the day of their arrival, the Scouts and Mr. Livingston had called at the crumbling old mission overlooking the sea. Politely but firmly, a servant had informed them that Father Francisco Manoel was ill and would receive no visitors. For five straight days, the answer always had been the same.
“It’s an excuse not to see us!” Willie asserted, getting up from the rocks. “Father Francisco just does not want to tell what he knows about Burton Monahan or that old parchment!”
“Oh, we can’t be sure,” Jack drawled. “Father Francisco may be sick. We didn’t expect this job to be an easy one. Or did we think Burton Monahan would be sitting conveniently on a rock pile waiting for us?”
“I’m getting tired of perching on this one!” War announced. “Let’s move!”
“Where?”
“We might amble into the village again.”
“Okay,” Jack agreed. “We’re not to meet Hap for a couple of hours. Plenty of time.”
Slowly, the Rovers climbed a crooked path which twisted up the steep hillside. Midway to the summit they met an old woman with a brilliantly colored parrot perched on her shoulder.
“Buenos dias,” croaked the bird.