"Well,—by God!—you ought to look who you're shooting at!"
"Up this Orinoco valley, señor, if you look too long before you shoot, you may not get to shoot at all."
"Huh! I bet you knew I was an American all the time."
"No, really, señor! Why should I shoot at an Americano?"
Strawbridge could think of no reason why any one should want to shoot at an American. During the silence which followed, the sailor asked in a placating tone:
"May I stand up, Señor Americano? This deck is very warm indeed."
The drummer relinquished his notion of killing the man.
"All right, get up," he conceded. "We're not doing any good like this." And Strawbridge walked out from behind the tonka-beans at the same time the captain sat up and then stood.
The sailor was a brown man, dripping with sweat, and with smudges of pitch on his clothes which he had got from the seams in the deck. He had a good-humored face, rather scared just now, and he looked curiously at Strawbridge as he mopped his face and neck with a red handkerchief.