The Portuguese disappeared softly into the crowd. The boat unobtrusively threaded the swarm of small craft, whipped behind a lighter, doubled the nose of the nearest pier, and drifted imperceptibly on while Joao reconnoitred.
“I guess we get behin’ that Lamport and Holt lighter. I don’ know wha’ Macedo goin’ to do.”
They scraped along past the spiles of the wharf and then dexterous strokes of the stubby oars kept them practically motionless under the wharf’s planking, close to one spile.
“What on earth is that?” the passenger queried, and put out his hand to the post. He grasped a watersoaked kitten, clinging desperately to the slippery wood, and too exhausted to mew.
“A cat!” the American ejaculated. “I didn’t know you had cats in this country. The city is knee-deep in dogs, but I haven’t seen a cat since I came.”
“I guess he fall overboard from that Englis’ bark, what jus’ tow out,” Joao said serenely. “That captain he got his wife too, an’ I see some little cat along the children.”
The kitten was coal black, not a white hair on it, and very wet. Henderson dried it with a handkerchief and warmed it inside of his jacket. Presently Joao said:
“Macedo’s boat gone roun’ Sacco d’Alferes. I don’ see Macedo. You bett’ not go back.”
“Go round to the Red Steps, then,” came the indulgent answer.