“I have a sneaking idea that before very long we’ll get involved in his monologue,” I said helplessly. “I think we ought to be as cautious as possible.”
Bogle blinked at the fat party, muttered to himself and then eased his great muscles. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Who’s this guy, anyway?”
“I am Pablo,” the fat party returned with a furtive look at Myra. “You are strangers to this country, you would not know me.”
Ansell started as if he’d been stung.
“Pablo,” Myra repeated. “Sounds like something to rub on your chest.”
The fat party smiled again. “The little man has heard of me. Is it not so, seńor?”
I’d heard of him, too, and when Ansell said “Yes” very feebly, I sympathized with him.
“Then tell your friends who I am,” Pablo went on. “Tell them that Pancho Villa and Zapata finished where I began. Tell them about my fortress in the mountains and of the men that have been bricked up in its walls. Tell them of the excellent fellows that work under me, and of the trains we have dynamited. Come, seńor, where is your tongue?”
Ansell looked round at us and nodded his head. “That’s the boy,” he said nervously.
“If Samuel will play the harmonica, we’ll give him a civic reception,” Myra said lightly.