“I didn’t know I had to have one,” I said. “Why do you ask?” I added. “Are you the captain of this ship?”
“I think I am,” he suddenly roared, as though I had questioned his word. “Anyway, I’ve got enough say on her to put you ashore if you don’t answer my questions.”
I shut my lips together and looked away from him. His tone stirred what little blood there was still left in me to rebellion; but when I saw the shore with its swamps and ragged palms, I felt how perilously near it was, and Panama became suddenly a distant mirage. I was as helpless as a sailor clinging to a plank. I felt I was in no position to take offence, so I bit my lips and tried to smile.
The Captain shook his head at me, as though I were a prisoner in the dock.
“Do you mean to say,” he shouted, “that our agent sold you a ticket without you showing a police-permit?”
“I haven’t got a ticket,” I said. “I was just going to buy one now.”
The Commandante thrust himself between us.
“Ah, what did I tell you?” he cried. “You see? He is escaping. This is the man. He answers all the descriptions. He was dressed just so; green coat, red trousers, very torn and dirty—head in bandage. This is the description. Is it not so?” he demanded of his lieutenants. They nodded vigorously.
“Why—a-yes, that is the man,” the Commandante cried in triumph. “Last night he stabbed Jose Mendez in the Libertad Billiard Hall. He has wanted to murder him. If Jose, he die, this man he is murderer. He cannot go. He must come to land with me.”
He gave an order in Spanish, and the soldiers closed in around us.