“I couldn’t get out of this place,” he said, waving his hands at the blank walls, “not if I had twenty arms and legs and all of them free, at that. It would be lots more comfortable if you didn’t truss me up again.”
The Mexican hesitated, and in his eyes was again that strange, softened look. If the fellow was not actively sympathetic, then neither was he actively unfriendly.
Phil sensed something of all this and he thrilled with hope. If he could make a friend at camp—but again he laughed at himself for being an idiot. Imagining the impossible again!
The Mexican was slowly shaking his head.
“No can do,” he said in laborious English. “Espato say ‘Tie up Americano.’ Ver’ well, Tony Gomez he do so. Espato word—law, senor.”
Something about the way he uttered Espato’s name made Phil glance at him sharply. He was dreaming again—or had there really been a cold dislike in the man’s voice?
But no, the Mexican’s dark, sullen face was as impassive as ever. He was still holding out the bonds with a resigned patience. With a sigh Phil rose and clasped his hands behind his back. There was no use fighting. He might just as well submit.
But the Mexican grunted again and again Phil looked at him inquiringly. The man was motioning him to put his hands in front.
“No tie ’em behind back,” he said. “Americano no can sleep. Tie ’em in front.”
Phil was duly grateful for this small kindness and told the Mexican so—although, as a matter of fact, he couldn’t imagine himself sleeping in that rat-infested place, especially with a hard pallet as his only bed.