As Peter was changing into dry clothes he held his watch so that Roddy could note the hour.
“How long would you have said we have been living on this island?” he asked.
“Oh, at least a week!” exclaimed Roddy. “I have had more excitement than I could get in New York in a year, and we haven’t been here twelve hours!”
“But it is all over now,” Peter announced. “We can’t stay here. We’re getting too chummy with this Venezuelan crowd, thanks to you.”
“What have I done now?” complained Roddy.
“You can’t help being who you are,” admitted Peter, “but you can see that this town is a red-hot incubator for revolutions. Every one in it thinks of nothing else, and every one thinks you are in deep with your father against Alvarez, and if we linger here Alvarez will think so, too. We’ve got to get back to Porto Cabello where we have a clean bill of health.”
Roddy had stretched himself upon his cot, in preparation for his afternoon siesta, but he sat upright, his face filled with dismay.
“And not see the Rojas family?” he cried.
Peter growled indignantly.
“See them! How can you see them?” he demanded. “We only drove past their house, along a public road, and already everybody in town has a flashlight picture of us doing it.”