“Do you mean you think I can’t plant deep-sea buoys?” demanded Roddy.
“You can’t plant potatoes!” said Peter. “If you had to set up lamp-posts, with the street names on them, along Broadway, you would put the ones marked Union Square in Columbus Circle.”
“I want you to know,” shouted Roddy, “that my buoys are the talk of this port. These people are just crazy about my buoys—especially the red buoys. If you didn’t come to Venezuela to see my buoys, why did you come? I will plant a buoy for you to-morrow!” challenged Roddy. “I will show you!”
“You will have to show me,” said Peter.
Peter had been a week in Porto Cabello, and, in keeping Roddy at work, had immensely enjoyed himself. Each morning, in the company’s gasoline launch, the two friends went put-put-putting outside the harbor, where Roddy made soundings for his buoys, and Peter lolled in the stern and fished. His special pleasure was in trying to haul man-eating sharks into the launch at the moment Roddy was leaning over the gunwale, taking a sounding.
One evening at sunset, on their return trip, as they were under the shadow of the fortress, the engine of the launch broke down. While the black man from Trinidad was diagnosing the trouble, Peter was endeavoring to interest Roddy in the quaint little Dutch Island of Curaçao that lay one hundred miles to the east of them. He chose to talk of Curaçao because the ship that carried him from the States had touched there, while the ship that brought Roddy south had not. This fact irritated Roddy, so Peter naturally selected the moment when the launch had broken down and Roddy was both hungry and peevish to talk of Curaçao.
“Think of your never having seen Curaçao!” he sighed. “Some day you certainly must visit it. With a sea as flat as this is to-night you could make the run in the launch in twelve hours. It is a place you should see.”
“That is so like you,” exclaimed Roddy indignantly. “I have been here four months, and you have been here a week, and you try to tell me about Curaçao! It is the place where curaçao and revolutionists come from. All the exiles from Venezuela wait over there until there is a revolution over here, and then they come across. You can’t tell me anything about Curaçao. I don’t have to go to a place to know about it.”
“I’ll bet,” challenged Peter, “you don’t know about the mother and the two daughters who were exiled from Venezuela and live in Curaçao, and who look over here every night at sunset?”