“It is necessary that I know when we arrive,” the lady resumed. “If it is not Tuesday, I must send a telegram.”
The purser shut the drawer noisily, but just then a bell rang overhead and the whistle blew to warn the visitors that they must go ashore.
“Then you must be quick,” said the purser. “Write your message here and give it to me. You need not be disturbed. We will land you at Palomas.”
The lady entered the office, but Dick thought her telegram would not be sent, and a moment later the captain’s plan dawned on him. The ship would call at the ports named, but not in the order stated, and this was why she needed so much coal. She would probably steam first to the port farthest off and then work backward, and the sailing list was meant to put the raider off the track. The latter’s commander, warned by spies who would send him the list, would think he knew where to find the vessel at any particular date, when, however, she would be somewhere else. Then Dick wondered why the musician was hanging about, and went up to him.
“The sobrecargo’s busy,” he said in English. “You’ll be taken to sea unless you get up on deck.”
“I no wanta el sobrecargo,” the man replied in a thick, stupid voice. “The music is thirsty; I wanta drink.”
The second-class bar was farther down the alleyway, and Dick, indicating it, turned back and made his way to the poop as fast as he could, for he did not think the man was as drunk as he looked. He found the musicians collecting their stands, and went up to the bandmaster.
“There’s one of your men below who has been drinking too much caña,” he said. “You had better look after him.”
“But they are all here,” the bandmaster answered, glancing round the poop.
“The man had a flute.”