"What did he say?" asked Alessandro.
The ancient lifted a shoulder, pulled down his wrinkled lips, nodded at the palace up the river and at the gloomy bulk of La Fortuna down the river, made a clicking sound with his tongue, and went silent.
These clicks and glances seemed to explain something. Simon, who owned the boat, looked at Strawbridge, with his small black Indian eyes stretched wide.
"Cá! Then you don't want to fish, after all?"
"Look here!" rapped out the drummer, feeling very uncomfortable. "Do I get that boat or not?"
Simon shrugged, and mentioned a price which no doubt was grotesquely exorbitant, according to his peon sense of value. The drummer reached into his pocket and drew out a roll of Venezuelan bills.
"I'll take it provided you'll scrub the damn thing with sand and get it clean."
The whole crowd stared at this amazingly swift trade. Here and there came a sharp intake of breath at such an amount paid for such a boat. Only the peon who owned the boat kept his head, but his excitement was shown by the sharp dints in the sides of his sun-blacked nose.
"Señor," he jockeyed, breathing heavily and staring at the bills, "it is impossible for me to clean the boat at such a price. Already I have given the boat away; I have pushed it into the rapids. I am a poor man, señor, and I cannot possibly clean the boat for less than ... for less than—" he stared fishily at Strawbridge, fearing to name too small a sum—"t-t-two, t-three ... sí ... t-t-three more bolivars, señor, and it will be cheap as mangos, at that!"