The lieutenant started in my direction, and then hesitated and beckoned to some one behind me.
I heard a patter of bare feet on the deck, and a dozen soldiers ran past me, and surrounded us. I noticed that they and their officers belonged to the Eleventh Infantry. It was the regiment I had driven out of the barracks at Santa Barbara.
The fat American in his shirt-sleeves was listening to what the Commandante was saying, and apparently with great dissatisfaction. As he listened he scowled at me, chewing savagely on an unlit cigar, and rocking himself to and fro on his heels and toes. His thumbs were stuck in his suspenders, so that it looked as though, with great indecision he was pulling himself forward and back.
I turned to the purser and said, as carelessly as I could: “Well, what are we waiting for?”
But he only shook his head.
With a gesture of impatience the fat man turned suddenly from the Commandante and came toward me.
He spoke abruptly and with the tone of a man holding authority.
“Have you got your police-permit to leave Amapala?” he demanded.
“No,” I answered.
“Well, why haven’t you?” he snapped.