Before Walter Goodwin could interfere, the Panamanian had found room to jerk a small automatic revolver from a pocket of his trousers. Alfaro caught a glimpse of the weapon and tried to grip the arm that flourished it. The decks were otherwise deserted at this early hour and duty called Walter to attempt the rôle of peacemaker. This was a difficult undertaking, for Alfaro, active as an angry jaguar, persisted in fighting at close range with hands and feet, while the bulky Panamanian twisted and wrenched him this way and that, and vainly tried to use his weapon.
There was no pulling them apart, and the swaying revolver was a menace which made Walter dive for a deck-broom left against the rail. The heavy handle was of hickory. Swinging it with all his might, Walter brought it down with a terrific thump across the knuckles of General Quesada, who instantly dropped the revolver. Walter's blood was up and he intended to deal thoroughly with this would-be murderer. Whacking him with the broom-handle, he drove him, bellowing, toward the nearest saloon entrance, while Alfaro danced behind them, shouting approval.
By now the first mate came charging down from the bridge. Captain Bradshaw arrived a moment later, clad in sky-blue pajamas, his bare feet pattering along the deck. He picked up the revolver, eyed Walter and the broom-handle with a comical air of surprise, and inquired:
"Who started this circus? Is it a revolution? I shall have to put a few of you fire-eaters in irons."
The parrot had rolled into the scuppers, cage and all, and its nerves were so shaken that it twisted its favorite oration wrong end to, and dolefully and quite appropriately chanted at intervals:
"Viva Colombia! Pobre Panama!"
Captain Bradshaw aimed an accusing finger at the bird and exclaimed:
"Shut up! You talk too much."
"That was the whole trouble, sir," said Walter, wondering whether he was to be punished or commended. "General Quesada brought this—this broom-handle on himself. He was trying to shoot Señor Alfaro."