Pedillo’s wiry mustaches twirled of themselves.
Meanwhile the boat skimmed lightly over the basin, and as the captain ceased speaking she ran alongside of the felucca. Don Ignaçio, with his bright single eye in full burning power, and a cigarette between his wrinkled lips, was on the deck of the vessel to receive his visitor; and as he saw the coxswain follow his superior with a weighty bag under his arm, his glimmering orb became brighter, if possible––as if it was piercing through the thick canvas of the bag, and counting, ounce by ounce, the contents––and putting out his fore finger, it was grasped cordially by the white hand of Captain Brand.
“Como se va? How goes it with my compadre? Stomach and head all clear after our long dinner of yesterday?”
The compadre said that his head was particularly clear that morning, and as for his stomach he had not yet inquired; but if the capitano had any doubts as to the former proposition, he had better step below and decide for himself.
In accordance with this ambiguous invitation, the visitor and commander disappeared down the small cuddy in the afterpart of the felucca, where was a low, stifling hole of a cabin, dank with stale tobacco-smoke, and smelling awfully of rats and roaches. There was a little round table in the middle, and on one side was a single berth, with some dirty bedding, which had not been cleaned, apparently, since the vessel was built. Light was shed from a skylight above.
Captain Brand gave a sniff of disgust as he entered this floating sanctum of Don Ignaçio, but, without remark, seated himself on a canvas stool, and waved a perfumed cambric kerchief before his nose.
Commander Sanchez, catching the inspiration, merely observed that it was a little close certainly, and not so spacious as the superb cabin of the schooner, and that sometimes, when lying in a calm off the lee side of Cuba, it was hot enough to melt the tail off a brass monkey; but yet it was his duty, and he did not particularly mind it.
Hereupon Captain Brand requested Don Ignaçio to produce his papers, and they were presently laid upon the table. For a few minutes the pirate was absorbed in running his cold eyes over the accounts––making pencil-notes on the margins, and comparing them with a memorandum he took from his pocket; but at last he threw himself back and exclaimed,
“Compadre, the account of old Moreno, at the Havana, is correct to a real––three hundred and twelve doubloons and eight hard dollars. Yours, however, has some few inaccuracies––double commissions charged here and there; all losses and sales charged to me, and all profits credited to you.”