“Yes, sir.”
“The Inglays Consul, you say?”
“Yes, please.”
“Tank you, but I not please. I tell you to go to Carpinche. You know your Consul live in Santa Barbara, where you just come from. Why you lie to me you want him here? To Carpinche, or I send you back to your Consul, on my ordnance mule, by phê, with your feet tied under his belly.”
The boat had by this time drifted across the mouth of the harbour, where she caught a gust which drove her a few yards out. The padron, who was in that land only to make a living, shook his head, as he let the sails fill on the new course. “We must to Carpinche,” he said. When the boat was some lengths from the pier, he took a stiletto from his boot and snicked it to and fro, passionately, on his boot-leg.
“Ise kill-a that man,” he said.
Hi hesitated. If he tried to land there, he might be shot: if he did land, he might be sent back to Santa Barbara.
“Where is this Carpinche?” he asked.
“South, ten miles.”
“Could I get a horse there?”