Again and again the alcalde sung out some energetic Spanish swear words, and looked daggers across at me, as though it were wholly my fault he chose to personally undertake this errand, instead of sending a deputy.
I did not fancy the venerable chap—there was a cold-blooded calculation in his eyes, as though he might be eternally sizing up one’s worth in a purely speculative mood, and it really goes against the grain of a free-born American to be thus set down as so much merchandise.
But I must dissemble—for Hildegarde’s sake I would have to hide my real feelings that prompted me to defy the fat tyrant to his teeth, threatening him with the awful retributive justice to be expected from Uncle Sam, and appear even docile, friendly, ready to hobnob with the devil should occasion arise, and some hope of profit appear above the horizon.
So I availed myself of every opportunity to give the old fellow the “glad hand,” as an acquaintance used to express it, to sympathize with his misfortune, execrate the driver, the bad roads and the wretched government that allowed his excellency to risk his neck when by the use of a small sum the evil could be remedied.
I thought diplomacy had won out, too, but was soon to be undeceived.
We reached the outskirts of the city.
Evening had come.
As usual, it was a bustling hour in Bolivar, for the heat of the day had kept all good people indoors until the fresh afternoon breeze came off the broad bay.
Once I had a good view of the harbor—how proud I had been when last leaving it—but what a tumble pride had taken.
There was a steamer in the harbor, and better still she flew that blessed Stars and Stripes. Would that Hildegarde were safe on board; as for myself, I might be willing to take my chances.