The saloon is inspected; after it the sleeping-rooms, right and left.
“Just the thing,” says Don Gregorio, speaking as in soliloquy, and evidently satisfied. “It will do admirably,” he adds, addressing himself to the skipper. “And now about terms. What are they to be?”
“That, señor, will depend on what is wanted. To what port do you wish me to take you?”
“Panama. ’Tis one of the ports mentioned in your advertisement?”
“It is, señor.”
“Well, for this freight—as I’ve told you, about a ton, with some trifling household effects—and the three passengers, how much?”
“The terms of freight, as you may be aware, are usually rated according to the class of goods. Is it gold, señor? From your description. I suppose it is.”
The skipper has guessed aright. It is gold, nearly a ton of it, accruing to Don Gregorio from the sale of his land, for which he has been paid in dust and nuggets, at that time the only coin in California—indeed, the only circulating medium, since notes were not to be had.
“Suppose it to be gold,” he answers guardedly, “how much then?”
The ex-ganadero is by no means a niggardly man; still, he would like to have his treasure transported at a rate not exorbitant. And yet he is anxious about its safety; and for this reason has resolved to ship it with secrecy in a private trading-vessel, instead of by one of the regular liners, that have already commenced plying between San Francisco and Panama. He has heard that these are crowded with miners returning home; rough fellows, many of them queer characters—some little better than bandits. He dislikes the idea of trusting his gold among them, and equally his girls, since no other ladies are likely to be going that way. He has full faith in the integrity of Captain Lantanas; knows the Chilian to be a man of gentle heart—in fact, a gentleman. Don Tomas has told him all this.