As I turned again the sentry called: “Am I to let these people go? They have no passes.”
I halted, and Joseph Fiske raised his heavy eyelids, and blinked at me like a huge crocodile. I put a restraint upon myself and moved toward him with a confident smile. I could not bear to have him depart, thinking he went in triumph. I looked the group over carefully and said: “Certainly, let them pass,” and Fiske and some of the Isthmian men, who appeared ashamed, nodded at me sheepishly.
But one of them, who was hidden by the carriage, called out: “You’d better come, too; your ship of state is getting water-logged.”
I made no sign that I heard him, but McGraw instantly answered, “Yes, it looks so. The rats are leaving it!”
At that the man called back tauntingly the old Spanish proverb: “He who takes Pecachua, sleeps in the palace.” McGraw did not understand Spanish, and looked at me appealingly, and I retorted, “We’ve altered that, sir. The man who sleeps in the palace will take Pecachua tonight.”
And McGraw added: “Yes, and he won’t take it with thirty pieces of silver, either.”
I started away, beckoning to McGraw, but, as we moved, Mr. Fiske pushed his pony forward.
“Can you give me a pass, sir?” he asked. He shouted the words, for the roaring of the storm drowned all ordinary sounds. “In case I meet with more of your men, can you give me a written pass?”
I knew that the only men of ours still outside of the city were a few scouts, but I could not let Fiske suspect that, so I whipped out my notebook and wrote:
“To commanders of all military posts: Pass bearer, Joseph Fiske, his family, servants, and baggage-train.