“Wonder what’s the matter now?” Bob whispered, disregarding the other’s remarks. He raised his head a trifle, cautiously, staring toward Ramirez and Ramon.
Captain Cornell did likewise.
The two Mexicans had halted in front of a car of midnight blue, long-snouted, with German nickel trimmings. It stood on the edge of the parked cars, indicating its owner had arrived early at the bull fight. Late comers had been forced to go farther along the road or to burrow deeper into the field. Here, with one foot on the running board and a hand extended to grasp the handle of the left front door, Ramirez paused and, facing about, appeared to be scolding his companion.
“He’s certainly giving that old fellow, Ramon, fits about something,” whispered Bob. “Wish I could hear what he’s saying.”
That a disagreement of some sort had arisen between the two Mexicans was plain. Old Ramon stood with hanging head, just out of reach of Ramirez, while the latter berated him in a voice too low for the words to carry to the eager ears of the two watchers.
Bob strained his ears to hear, but that Captain Cornell’s thoughts were otherwise engaged was evidenced when he suddenly emitted a sharp exclamation under his breath, and then squeezed Bob’s arm.
“Doesn’t that car look familiar to you?” he demanded.
“Why, I don’t know.” Bob was puzzled. There was something vaguely familiar about the appearance of the big car beside which Ramirez stood, yet he could not identify what it was.
“Well, it looks familiar to me,” said the flyer in an excited undertone. “That’s the car your friend Don Ferdinand was riding in last night when he bumped us, or I miss my guess. Look again.”
“Golly,” breathed Bob, “you’re right.”