Ramon Bazán was more troubled than ever. He took hold of the ship’s rail for support. Wearing a great cork helmet and leather gaiters, a canteen slung over his shoulder, he looked like a queer little caricature of a tropical explorer.
“Don Miguel O’Donnell on Cocos Island?” he wheezed, in a gusty flare of passion. “May he suffer ten million torments! Colombia knows him as well as Ecuador, Mr. Duff. He is very wise and very bold, a man of brains. I tell you, we must sleep with both eyes open. Bad luck has come to us. If Don Miguel O’Donnell suspects us of knowing where the treasure is, he will stop at nothing at all. A soldier of fortune, Ricardo? This one is a piratico of the most up-to-date pattern.”
“He sounds entertaining,” hopefully suggested Ricardo. “He does things in the grand manner. Just now he is tearing Cocos Island to pieces, or pulling it up by the roots, according to Mr. Panchito. I like his style.”
“The grand manner is right,” grumbled Bradley Duff. “Somebody staked him on this proposition. A syndicate, perhaps. He always talks big and gets away with it.”
It was apparent to Richard Cary that old Ramon Bazán had been shaken by enough excitement for one day. Don Miguel O’Donnell was the last straw. It was therefore sensible to suggest:
“Why not sit tight aboard ship for a day or two and see if this other outfit really intends to weigh anchor? Mr. Panchito has a notion that they are about through. Unless we show our hand, this enterprising gentleman from Ecuador won’t think of interfering with us.”
“Right you are, Captain Cary,” agreed Bradley Duff. “Let’s wait him out. It may avoid getting in a jam. Why not keep our business to ourselves?”
This rational advice infuriated Señor Bazán. Wait in idleness on the deck of a ship and look at the cliffs of Cocos Island with its fabulous riches almost within his grasp? Why had he placed this giant of a Captain Ricardo in command of the expedition? To smash through all obstacles, to use his wonderful strength and courage. Was the Yellow Tiger of Cartagena afraid of matching himself against this Don Miguel O’Donnell? He, Ramon Bazán, was an aged man with one foot in the grave, but he was eager to go ashore and begin operations. There were men and rifles enough. . .
The tirade was quelled by Ricardo, who thrust his employer into a deck-chair, fanned him with the cork helmet, and announced:
“If you rave any more, Papa Bazán, your heart will go funny, and then where are you? Unless you take care of yourself, I can’t let you go ashore at all. You are not fit to leave the ship to-day. Now please stay in the shade and keep cool and collected.”