So the conversation became general again.
At six, Bill drove over to the neighboring plantation to fetch Peterkins, who had spent the day there with the Crowell children, back to supper. When he returned, he looked rather serious.
"What's up?" asked Wright idly, from the canvas verandah swing.
"Nothing much," he answered, "that is, not yet. Run along to Sarah, Peter,—there's a good fellow."
But I knew that something was wrong, and after the child had left us, I asked quietly,
"Tell us, Bill, please!"
"Crowell's been having some trouble with the natives," he answered, frowning. "It may blow over—and it may spread. They're like a lot of sheep. But I feel responsible to Reynolds, even if Silas is in charge. The people have a healthy respect for Silas, and they trust him,—but—"
"What sort of trouble?" asked Wright, practically.
"Oh, threats—and little gatherings—and demonstrations. They are always restless, and the slightest thing sets them off. Crowell discharged one of his surliest men the other day. Unfortunately, the chap is related to half Guayabal. We've some of his cousins and brothers and uncles on this place, I suppose! Anyway, this Miguel person has been going about trying to incite the people to open enmity against the resident Americans. Of course, it probably won't amount to a hill of beans, but you never know where you stand."
"Haven't they just finished a comic-opera revolution here?" asked Wright. "Seems to me I read something about it."