“I bargained for money, Shylock. You’ve had your pound of flesh. Where are my ducats?”
Steinbaum produced a ten-dollar bill. He even forced a smile. Seemingly he was anxious to keep the prisoner in this devil-may-care mood.
“Not half enough!” cried Maseden, and he broke into Spanish.
“Hi, my gallant caballeros, isn’t there another squad in the patio?”
“Si, señor!” cried several voices.
Even these crude, half-caste soldiers revealed the Latin sense of the dramatic and picturesque. They appreciated the American’s cavalier air. That morning’s doings would lose naught in the telling when the story spread through the cafés of Cartagena.
And what a story they would have to tell! Little could they guess its scope, its sensations yet to come.
“Very well, then! At least another ten-spot, Steinbaum.... But, mind you, sergeant, not a drop till the volley is fired! You might miss, you know!”
The man whom he addressed as sergeant eyed the two notes with an amiable grin.