‘Are there any white ones among them?’ Oversluys asked. An albino form of Cattleya Bowringiana had never been heard of, but he thought it might exist. And if so the roof of an Indian church would be the place to look for such a treasure.
‘As many white as red! I say, what will you give for a dozen?’
This was a difficult question under any circumstances, since the plants could hardly be flowering then; and there is no difference in growth betwixt the white varieties and the red. Besides, Oversluys had not the very slightest confidence in this youth.
‘How will you get them?’ he asked.
‘Never mind that. Pay me half the money down and I’ll bring the plants to-morrow. You know, our Indians are suspicious of collectors. You mustn’t be seen in the village.’
That was reasonable enough in one point of view, but preposterous in the other. ‘Oh,’ said Oversluys, ‘I must see the orchids at any risk—that’s flat! and I must hear how you mean to work.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you take them without the Padre’s consent you know as well as I that the Indians will be after me at daylight, and—h’m! There would be work for the doctor! What sort of man is your Padre?’
‘A sort of pig, of course,’ laughed Don Hilario. ‘A fat old boar, ready for the knife. And my knife is ready, too! Patience, friend, patience!’ His eyes still laughed, but he made the significant gesture so common in those lands—a sudden stealthy grip of the machete at his waist.
This was not an unimportant revelation. ‘You are on bad terms with the Cura?’ Oversluys asked.