“Different driver,” he said, nodding to the man on the front seat.
I glanced sharply at the fellow, but could not say.
“Let’s go on,” I murmured, “and trust to luck.”
“You bet you!” returned the young man. “But there won’t be any luck about it. We’ll try this.”
When the chauffeur turned around for instructions he got them in forcible and understandable proportions. Anderson’s revolver was within six inches of his back. The man went white.
“A vapor! The boat!” ordered Anderson.
The vigor of that driver’s assent was comical. His head rocked and bobbed with eagerness.
“Si! Si! Madre de Dios!” he exclaimed.