"Now you have arrived, we will go on with the drill," the President remarked. "Afterwards, Señor Marston will tell us what he thinks about my soldiers."
"My opinion is not worth much; I am a sailor," Marston replied with some awkwardness, because he thought the President was amused.
"You are modest," the latter rejoined. "Well, we cannot ask what you think about our fleet. Our gunboat, the Campeador, has stranded, and this only leaves us the tug."
"I have seen the tug," said Marston, and stopping for a moment, went on: "A very fine boat! She looks powerful and ought to steam fast."
Wyndham wondered whether the others had noted Marston's pause. It was not long and perhaps his frank admission would satisfy them.
"Let us try to turn kilometers into what you call knots," said the President. "It is a complicated sum; you must help me, Don Ramon."
"About twelve knots," Wyndham interposed when they began the calculation. "However, you must not indulge my comrade by letting him talk about ships. We came to see the soldiers."
The President signed to an officer, who shouted, and the cazadores wheeled and formed on a new front. The bands and muzzles of their rifles sparkled in the searching light and dust rolled about them as they moved. They were little, wiry men, and although they did not drill remarkably well and their white uniforms were not clean, Wyndham noted that their rifles were good. Moreover, their equipment was up to date and new.
The officer, shouting savagely, kept the men moving about, and when at length he dismissed them came back, hot and sprinkled by dust, with a look of disgust. Wyndham, allowing something for the German character, thought the disgust was rather marked.
"Then you are not satisfied yet?" the President asked.