Quentin didn’t take his eyes off the little group of men making their way cautiously along the waterfront. “I guess so,” he said shortly. “Those guys are itching to let those cannons off…. I don’t blame them really.”
Morecombre came back and set up the camera on a short-legged tripod. He hastily made adjustments, focusing on the men below. From where they stood they had an uninterrupted view of the whole of the winding waterfront.
Quentin stepped back into the room. “It would be as well to keep out of sight as much as possible,” he said to Myra. “These guys are going to shoot at anything.”
From just inside the verandah they watched the small group of men move slowly along the waterfront. They moved very cautiously, pausing outside each cafe, their rifles at the ready. No one disturbed them. Whether the word had gone out that they were starting something, Quentin didn’t know, but no one interfered with them; even the dogs slid into the dark alleys at their approach. Finally, they turned off the waterfront and made their direction inland. The three watchers lost sight of them.
Quentin went over to the sideboard and poured out three long gin slings. He handed them round in silence.
Morecombre sat back on his heels; he still kept near the window. “Fell a little flat, didn’t it?” he said. “Thought this was where it was going to start.”
Quentin shook his head. “It’s started all right,” he said. “In a day or so there’ll be as much trouble as anyone can handle here. That little gang will be wiped out. Then a bigger gang will turn up and they’ll go the same way. Then a bigger gang still will appear, and maybe a number of them will get away and join the next band. It takes time to get a real revolution going. These guys don’t have much chance to organize.”
Morecombre got up and stretched his legs. “Maybe we’re in the safest spot. I don’t fancy running around the streets with that sort of stuff going on.”
Quentin didn’t answer. He glanced over at Myra, and his lips tightened. If she wasn’t there, he would have been a lot happier. Maybe Fuentes would have left them alone but for her. There was always trouble when a woman turned up in a spot like this.
A tap sounded on the door and Anita came in. She carried a bundle of clothes over her arm. “Senorita is welcome to these,” she said, looking first at Myra and then at Quentin.