"The 'Santiago' leaves here Saturday for New York. I guess you had better wait over for her," Clay said. "I'll engage your passage, and, in the meantime, Captain Stuart here will see that they treat you well in the cuartel."
The men around the table started, and sat motionless looking at Clay, but Burke only took his pipe from his mouth and knocked the ashes out on the heel of his boot. "What am I going to the cuartel for?" he asked.
"Well, the public good, I suppose," laughed Clay. "I'm sorry, but it's your own fault. You shouldn't have shown yourself here at all."
"What have you got to do with it?" asked Burke, calmly, as he began to refill his pipe. He had the air of a man who saw nothing before him but an afternoon of pleasant discourse and leisurely inactivity.
"You know what I've got to do with it," Clay replied. "I've got our concession to look after."
"Well, you're not running the town, too, are you?" asked Burke.
"No, but I'm going to run you out of it," Clay answered. "Now, what are you going to do,—make it unpleasant for us and force our hand, or drive down quietly with our friend MacWilliams here? He is the best one to take you, because he's not so well known."
Burke turned his head and looked over his shoulder at Stuart.
"You taking orders from Mr. Clay, to-day, Captain Stuart?" he asked.
"Yes," Stuart answered, smiling. "I agree with Mr. Clay in whatever he thinks right."