“A cargo boat in the Pacific trade, but she left me on the beach.”
It went against the grain to deceive this warm-hearted, attractive Navy lad. In fact, there was no reason why he should be kept in the dark concerning the vanished Valkyrie. He had won the respect of Teresa Fernandez by his refusal to go roistering among the bad women of Panama.
“Gee, you are out of luck,” impulsively exclaimed the boyish petty officer. “What’s your name? Rubio? Hey, Rube, if you need any coin, I’ve got a bundle. You’re a good kid. I can size ’em up. Steve Brackett, gunner’s mate, second class, is what they call me. I’m in the destroyer Patterson. We’ve been chasing a division of seaplanes that made a flight down from San Diego.”
“You ought not to carry so much money,” seriously advised young Rubio. “Panama is just looking for fellows like you. I have money enough, thank you with all my heart.”
“Let ’em try to ease me of my roll,” bragged the gunner’s mate. “I’m not such a soft mark for these spiggoty crooks. On the level, kid, I ought to convoy you. For a sailor you sure do look timid and tender.”
“Is that so? Here, let me take your hand,” smiled the soft-spoken young Colombian.
Steve Brackett extended a brown, calloused paw. Before he could close it, the fingers were squeezed in a quick, nervous grip that made him wince and cry out. He wrenched them free and exclaimed:
“Easy, kid! Do you want to cripple one of the best gun-pointers in this man’s Navy? Huh, you are the deceivin’ guy! How do you get that way, with a wrist as small as that, and a hand like a girl’s?”
The training of a ship’s stewardess might have had something to do with it, but Rubio fancifully explained:
“There were some great swordsmen in my family one time. Listen, Steve, do you know this nice, polite bartender? Tell me about him.”