He wondered what these
fellows were, without being able to form a guess of sufficient
probability. Their names he learned that very day by direct inquiry "to
enter in my books," he explained in his formal military manner, chest
thrown out, beard very much in evidence.
The shaven man, sprawling in a long chair, with his air of withered
youth, raised his eyes languidly.
"My name? Oh, plain Mr. Jones--put that down--a gentleman at large. And
this is Ricardo." The pock-marked man, lying prostrate in another long
chair, made a grimace, as if something had tickled the end of his nose,
but did not come out of his supineness. "Martin Ricardo, secretary. You
don't want any more of our history, do you? Eh, what? Occupation? Put
down, well--tourists. We've been called harder names before now; it
won't hurt our feelings. And that fellow of mine--where did you tuck him
away? Oh, he will be all right. When he wants anything he'll take it.
He's Peter. Citizen of Colombia. Peter, Pedro--I don't know that he ever
had any other name. Pedro, alligator hunter. Oh, yes--I'll pay his board
with the half-caste. Can't help myself. He's so confoundedly devoted to
me that if I were to give him the sack he would be at my throat. Shall
I tell you how I killed his brother in the wilds of Colombia? Well,
perhaps some other time--it's a rather long story.
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