"Go ashore and look for yourself," he muttered. "Don't believe me. Ask
Rojas. Ask the first man you meet." He shivered, and shrugged his
shoulders. "I tell you, the walls are damp, like sweat."
The Government had telegraphed the commandant to come on board and, as
he expressed it, "offer me the hospitality of the port," which meant
that I had to take him to the smoking-room and give him champagne. What
the Government really wanted was to find out whether I was still on
board, and if it were finally rid of me.
I asked the official concerning Judge Rojas.
"Oh, yes," he said readily. "He is still _incommunicado_."
Without believing it would lead to anything, I suggested:
"It was foolish of him to give offence to Mr. Scott?"
The commandant nodded vivaciously.
"Mr. Scott is very powerful man," he assented. "We all very much love
Mr. Scott. The president, he love Mr. Scott, too, but the judges were
not sympathetic to Mr. Scott, so Mr. Scott asked our president to give
them a warning, and Senor Rojas--he is the warning."
"When will he get out?" I asked.
The commandant held up the glass in the sunlight from the open air-port,
and gazed admiringly at the bubbles.
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