“Possibly in the Tarragona. There was some talk that he might have bribed one of the crew to hide him for the short trip to Porto Colombia or Santa Marta. But he has not been seen in those ports. I have inquired of friends. He is very well known on this coast as a colonel of the army before he was appointed Comandante of the Port. There it is! Colonel Fajardo has most thoroughly disappeared. I regret you did not hit him with the terrible iron bar.”
“I shall always regret it,” said Richard Cary. “Doesn’t that make it more hopeful for me to climb out of this infernal scrape, Señor Bazán?”
“Not very much. You are charged with murder, assault, breaking prison, and the good God knows what else! And you are El Tigre Amarillo Grande! The Fruit Company’s agent has shown no interest in your behalf. That would be most useful.”
“Captain Sterry may have turned in a bad report in New York, sir. He was biased—there was a personal difference—a grudge of his. He signed on another second mate, I presume, and I was thrown in the discard.”
“Then you will have no employment as an officer, even if you are lucky enough to get away from Cartagena, Señor Cary?”
“It sounds ridiculous to look that far ahead,” lazily answered the prisoner who found it hard to stay awake. “At present I seem to be cast for the part of El Tigre, and it doesn’t appeal to me at all.”
Señor Bazán scolded himself for exhausting a guest already weak and in distress of mind. He took the young man by the arm and tried to steady him as they crossed the patio and entered a bedroom. The bath was near at hand.
“Pajamas to-morrow, Ricardo,” said the host. “The woman in my kitchen is sewing them together. She will also make some white clothes. There are none big enough in the shops. If I visit a tailor he will pass it around as a joke that Ramon Bazán must have El Tigre Amarillo in his house. Bolt your door, if it pleases you. The window has strong iron bars and nobody in Cartagena can pull them out to molest you. There are worse friends to have than old Ramon Bazán. That Teresa has called me a funny old guy to my face. You mustn’t believe all she tells you.”
The old gentleman went fluttering off in his hurried fashion as if shadows were forever chasing him. Richard Cary was awake for a long time. Sounds in the street disturbed him. Once he fancied he heard the distant voices of men singing and the melodious tinkle of a guitar. Again it was the pit-pat-pat of feet on the pavement outside the window. When sleep came to him, his dreams were unhappy.