“In some ways, I regard you as most unfortunate,” she said. “I have been told you are here by accident—that you never meant to take the voyage at all. Is that true?”
Frascuelo, delighted to have secured a sympathetic listener, poured forth his sorrows volubly. He bore no ill-will against the captain he said. He knew it was wrong to draw a knife on the chief officer, as his tale was an unlikely one, and he ought to have trusted to a more orderly recital of the facts to obtain credence.
“But I was that mad, señorita, I just saw red, and the drink was yet surging up in me. I felt I must fight somebody, whatever the consequences.”
“Can you tell me why any one had such a grievance against you that you should be thrown into the hold and nearly killed? That was a strange thing to do, especially as you came aboard too late for your work.”
“Ah, that is the point, señorita. You see, we trimmers work in gangs, and the man who flung me through the hatch was the man who had taken my place. I see no reason to doubt that it was he who made me drunk the previous evening, and I know who did that.”
“What was his name?”
“José Anacleto—‘José the Wine-bag’ we call him on the Plaza. I ought to have smelt mischief when José paid. Never before had I seen him do such a thing. And a good liquor, too. Dios, it must have cost him dollars.”
“What object had he in coming on board instead of you?”
“Ah, there you beat me, señorita. I have twisted my poor brain with thinking of that. We only earned a dollar a head, and bunkering a ship from a flat is hard work while it lasts, whereas one would expect José to ride twenty miles the other way to escape such a task. But he was in the plot, and he shall tell me why, or—”
By force of habit, Frascuelo put his right hand to his belt, but his sheath knife had been taken from him. He smiled sheepishly; yet his black eyes twinkled.