"
Crosby hesitated a moment.
"Quand finira ce drole representation?--et--et--qui est ce qui est
l'entrepreneur?" he said dubiously.
The priest stared. These Americans were surely cooler and less excitable
than his strange guest. A thought struck him.
"How many are still in the ship?" he asked gently.
"Nobody but Perkins and that piratical crew of niggers."
"And that infernal Hurlstone," added Winslow.
The priest pricked up his ears.
"Hurlstone?" he repeated.
"Yes--a passenger like ourselves, as we supposed. But we are satisfied
now he was in the conspiracy from the beginning," translated Crosby
painfully.
"Look at his strange disappearance--a regular put-up job," broke in
Brace, in English, without reference to the Padre's not comprehending
him; "so that he and Perkins could shut themselves up together without
suspicion."
"Never mind Hurlstone now; he's GONE, and we're HERE," said Banks
angrily. "Ask the parson, as a gentleman and a Christian, what sort of a
hole we've got into, anyhow. How far is the next settlement?"
Crosby put the question. The subaltern lit a cigarette.
"There is no next settlement. The pueblo ends at San Antonio.
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