“Of course,” he said, with a humble note of interrogation, “you’re posted—you know every inch of the country from Baracoa to Corrientes?”
Morehead moved a little restlessly.
“I was three months around Santiago with my regiment,” said he.
“And spent every spare second examining the creeks, I don’t doubt,” said the other cheerfully. “My boy,” he went on, “I had been five years in the country before you began to attend kindergarten. In those days the fame of the Blique Bayou alligator was known to every soul within a hundred miles of Guantanama. I don’t mind allowing that the name of Everett P. Banks—which is what I’m called when I’m at home, gentlemen—was a good deal in men’s mouths about the same time. We were much mixed up together, one way or another, that astounding beast and I.”
The steward leaned his head upon his palms, and swore gently beneath his breath. He told himself that this evil old man was about to knock another half-hour off the night’s rest. He recognized in the gray eyes a triumphant light—the gleam that illumines the face of the raconteur whose audience is assured.
Morehead was still dissatisfied.
“Blique Bayou?” he repeated superciliously. “Blique Bayou?”
Banks nodded with an indulgent air.
“On the map it appears as the San Antonio River,” he explained, “and it flows into the sea about a mile to the west of the Buena Esperanza Mining Company’s settlement. As it was notorious that Emil Blique, the West Indian, owned all the shares, the hill that was topped by the shafting was called Blique Mountain, and the creek and swamp around it Blique Bayou. For five years I was manager of the whole outfit. And a knock-kneed crowd they were,” he added reminiscently.
Mathers interrupted. It looked as if the narrative were going to jump the tracks to be wrecked on outside issues.