The merchant sighed. He was not a good walker; then he thought of the profits he would make out of the trip, and straightway became reconciled to the idea.
The arrangements were quickly made, thanks to the help of the Presidente, and Mr Gobbitt breathed more freely. He was anxious to get away as soon as possible for various reasons, of which Mrs Bush was one.
As they walked back to the house, the Englishman remembered a question he had meant to ask before. “Did you ever meet a son of my late partner, Dunk—Albert Dunk, who was our manager in Manila? He died near Hippapad some months back.”
The Captain shook his head. “He never passed through here. Probably he landed at Catarman, further round the bay. You might have gone in that way, too. I wonder old Gumpertz didn’t suggest it …. No, very little news of that sort drifts across the mountains to us. You see, there’re so few white men on that side for a good many miles; then, of course, you get plenty again.”
Meanwhile, John Mackay had strolled out of the town, carrying a small switch as his sole weapon. About a mile past the last shack, he sat down at the edge of the cocoa-nut grove, lit a cigar, and puffed away contentedly. A few minutes later, a little man, clad in blue jean and wearing two formidable-looking bolos, emerged from the bush some twenty yards away, looked cautiously up and down the grove, then came forward.
“Good-morning, Senor,” he said.
John Mackay nodded. “Good-morning, Simon. Can a message go to the Senor Felizardo? It is this—I am going round this side of his mountain and across the pass with an Englishman. There will be six Scouts to look after the carriers, that is all. He will leave us alone?”
The little man grinned. “Assuredly he will leave the Senor alone, as always. Only he will ask—where does the Senor go there?”
“Down the northern valley. Not on to his mountains at all.”
“Very well, Senor. The message will go;” and the outlaw disappeared as silently as he had come.