They came into a fair-sized room, sparsely furnished with a chair and a few wooden benches. As they passed into a long corridor lined with cells, Diego’s pal relieved them of their suitcases, while Diego unlocked a door and motioned with his rifle for father and son to step into the cell.
“This is an outrage!” exploded Mr. Bolton.
Without a word, Diego slammed and locked the door behind them.
Bill, who feared that a show of resistance might cause the men to separate him from his father, cut in upon his parent’s fury.
“Hey, you, Diego!” he called.
Diego stopped and turned round.
“Speak English?” Bill pressed his face against the bars and stared at the man, who exhibited no sign that he understood.
“My Naval Academy Spanish won’t pass muster, so I reckon it must be English,” continued Bill ruefully. “Anyway, I’ll take a chance. Look here, Diego. Bring my father and me something to drink—something cool and wet—with ice in it if you can—and I’ll make it all right with you when the boss learns who we are and lets us go. If I’m talking too fast for you to follow, I’ll say it all over again. How about it, my lad, do you get me?”
A sour grin spread over Diego’s none too prepossessing visage.
“Youse an’ yer ole man go blow yer tops!” he replied in the best Bowery argot. “Whadda yer take dis joint for—de Waldorf?”