As though sure of the effect of that name, the driver paused dramatically, but, except that the two Americans looked inquiringly at each other, they made no sign.
“Mebbe I better call that gentleman—Pino?” the driver suggested. “Everybody call him Pino, just like he be everybody’s brother.” The man showed his teeth broadly, in a delighted grin. “The market womens, the sailor mens, the police mens, the black peoples, and the white gentlemens, everybodys—call him Pino. Pino he be exiled. If he go to his country that President Alvarez he say he shoot him. So Pino go over that way,” with his whip he pointed to the east. “They say he go live in Paris. But yesterday he come in that steamer, and all the peoples be waiting at that wharf. Everybody be glad to see Pino.”
“Everybody but that man with that gun,” suggested Roddy.
The driver rolled his eyes darkly and pursed his lips. “That be bad man,” he said.
“Did President Alvarez,” inquired Roddy pleasantly, “send that bad man over here to shoot the too popular Pino?”
Peter uttered a sudden growl of indignation.
“Look where you are driving!” he ordered.
When the negro had turned to his horses Peter stared at Roddy long and steadily.
“What that parrot said of you,” he declared grimly, “was true.”
Those Venezuelans who at once had set forth on their ponies to overtake the would-be assassin already had brought word of the attempt upon Colonel Vega to Willemstad, and the repose of the peaceful burgh was greatly ruffled. The arrival of the young men increased the excitement, and, though they fled to their rooms, from their balcony overlooking the wharf they could hear their driver, enthroned upon his box seat, describing the event to an intent and eager audience.