“Ah, yes, I remember the trip. Why not? You had the B suite, and rowdy parties in it every night. There were ladies on board. They requested the captain to stop the disturbance. It was most unusual. A ship’s good name is highly regarded.”
Young Antonio de Mello perceived that his heiress had caught a Tartar. Also, he knew Teresa of old. He cleverly contrived to draw her aside, and said:
“Pardon my wife’s lack of tact. Think how I adored you when we were young. And you are more beautiful than ever, La Bella Teresa. How many lovers at this moment? Be frank with an old friend.”
“Only one, I swear it, thou scamp of an Antonio,” smiled Teresa, “and he has run away from me.”
“He is an imbecile. Then I am just in time to apply for the vacancy.”
“The vacancy is in your silly head, not in my poor heart,” she told him.
Before the scamp could parry this insult, his small daughter, aged five, came running in to throw herself into the arms of Teresa Fernandez. It was a joyous reunion. They had been shipmates. This explained it. Teresa was a lawful capture who had to be led jealously by the hand, away from the grown-ups, and held in audience by this devoted admirer. Breathlessly the child rattled on:
“And I can’t stay up for dinner, but Mamma said I could see you for five minutes, after I yelled and wouldn’t stay good. And if you don’t go in the ship with us to-morrow I’ll cry some more. Why aren’t you a stewardess, Teresa? You know the story you told me—’bout the jaguar that climbed right up on the roof of the peon’s hut and clawed and scratched and growled awful, till he made a hole and tumbled in?”
“Yes, my sweet angel,” laughed Teresa. “I have told that story to lots of little boys and girls on the ship. The last trip I made as stewardess I told the story to a little boy from Bogotá. I had to tell it to him four times, and his eyes got bigger and bigger and he wiggled his feet and said, ‘Oh my,’ just like you.”
“I wasn’t real scared, Teresa, but I bet I can scare you, awful. My story is terrible. You’ll just scream.”