“Well, well,” said he, “ ’tis comical to have a steamer go playin’ hookey with itself, ain’t it, Señor Sanchez? And you’ve tried the other coast ports, north and south of here?”
“Yes. The vessel is nowhere on the coast, Mr. Mike.”
“So you’re adrift and forlorn without this uncle that looks like a monkey? The Valkyrie, hey? Who else was in her?”
“Captain Bradley Duff, for one,” replied Rubio. “He is pretty well known.”
“Bradley Duff? The lousy old skate!” said Mike, with an air of reflection. “He was in jail in Panama a year ago, an’ I paid his fine for him. The spiggoty cops run him in for disturbin’ the peace. A first-class skipper was Bradley Duff till he piled a fine steamer up when he was stewed, an’ that busted him.”
“My uncle was crazy when he hired him,” said Rubio, “but in Cartagena he could find nobody else.”
“I dunno about that,” observed Mike. “A man may be down, but he’s never out. But I’d never apply this motto to Bradley Duff if I hadn’t seen it with me own two eyes. Your old uncle made no mistake, surprising as it may sound. Not long ago, do you say? Right you are, Señor Sanchez. In walks this same Bradley Duff, an’ you could ha’ knocked me down with a lemonade straw. He was clean and smart as new paint. Blue serge coat buttoned over that fat stummick of his, a chief officer’s stripes on the sleeves, white duck pants, cap cocked over one eye an’ you be billy-be-damned! He slaps his money on the bar an’ drinks a bottle of beer.”
“Was he alone?” asked Rubio, leaning forward.
“In solitary grandeur he was, an’ minding his own business. Strong men used to flee when he came into a bar-room, for it was him that could talk your ear off, boomin’ an’ droolin’ along by the hour. Well, we passed the time of day, an’ I handed him a few compliments an’ another bottle of beer on the house. All he told me was that his ship was the Valkyrie an’ he was chief officer. Never a word about where he was going nor what for. Something is in the wind, I says to meself, but I’m not slick enough to pry it out of this human clam of a Bradley Duff.
“He sets down for a spell, very dignified, buyin’ no more drinks, as indifferent as if him an’ booze had never been introjuced. Then he looks at the clock, says he’s due back on board an’ pounds out. ’Twas like one of these juicy young gobs on liberty. The discipline of the ship was not to be trifled with. Something powerful had put the fear of God into Bradley Duff. As the Good Book says, whilst the light holds out to burn, the vilest sinner may come home to roost.”