“Oh, dear, the Inglays Meester threaten me.” He came a step or two nearer to the edge of the pier, so as to read the number on the boat’s bows. “Padron,” he said, “your boat, number B 71, is suspect. You will take your boat down to Carpinche and report to the commandant there. If you try to land anywhere nearer, you shall be arrest, you and cat’s tripes; yes, and shot. To Carpinche: go.”
The padron civilly asked whether there were any warrant upon which he could be ordered to Carpinche.
“Yes,” the officer said, “a very good warrant. The proclamation of martial law.” Here he drew out a revolver. “I command here for the Republic, which now scrapes off the foreign lice that cling to her. You rebel, I shoot. To Carpinche.”
“One moment, please,” Hi said. “I want to see the English Consul here.”
“No, no,” the padron said. “No consul here.”
“Well, anyway, I’ve a right to land.”
“No, no,” Chigo whispered. “You get into trouble.”
“What does Miss tank you, the Inglays, say?” the officer asked.
“I want to see the English Consul,” Hi said.
“Oh, he wants to see the Inglays Consul?”