IV
The one break in the day’s monotony came at mid-afternoon.
Then a shore-party from the Rochester, still lingering far out in the harbor, would shoot past the waterfront in a trim white launch, and come rolling up the long wharf to see the sights of town.
Whenever the Chinaman saw them coming, he would shout for all his servants to man the bar.
The sailors, seeming to know the local geography instinctively, headed straight for the hotel. While their Ship’s Police scattered out through town with swinging clubs, the tars all trooped into the establishment.
“Hello there, buddy! Say, kin you talk this spig language? Tell that Chink we want liquor!”
And presently they were all over the city, bargaining in every shop, contriving somehow despite their ignorance of Spanish to obtain whatever they desired. They purchased native rope bags, and filled them with fresh eggs, live turtles, earthenware jars, Spanish daggers, goat-skulls, fruits, vegetables, and snake skins. They stood on street corners, frowning over handfuls of unfamiliar coins received in exchange, wondering to what extent they had been cheated.
“Hey there, feller. You’re a Yank, ain’t you? Tell me how much I’ve got here in real money.”
One husky tar, with a sailor’s knack of getting acquainted, rolled up the street with a native girl on his arm, amid the cheers of his friends. He had a sandwich in one hand, and a flask in the other. She was a chubby little brown creature, in a tight-fitting red dress, and her short fat legs bulged above the tops of high, tightly-laced boots that appeared newly purchased.
“Wait a minute, sister. We’re goin’ in here an’ get you a hat. You’ll be some swell skoit when I get finished wit’ you.”
They vanished into a shop. When they emerged, the lady wore a green and yellow bonnet trimmed with purple and blue. She was leading her hero toward the village photographer’s to immortalize in tin-type this thrilling event. They came out with the photographer’s parrot. The sailor had purchased it, and was teaching it to say:
“To hell wit’ the marines!”
Gradually, as the hour of departure drew near, all would gravitate toward the saloon at the wharf, where they purchased more flasks of whiskey for the journey to their ship. The little native bartender, overwhelmed at the many orders shouted at him in a strange tongue, became completely paralyzed, whereupon every one helped himself, and tossed greenbacks across the bar. At last the S.P.’s commenced to herd the crowd toward their launch. A delinquent always came running from town at the last moment, his bag of eggs bouncing against his uniform and creating golden havoc. The little native bartender came to life to scream that two flasks had not been paid for. The escort of the lady in the red dress had a fight at the end of the wharf with several of his cronies who considered it their privilege to kiss her farewell.
“Act like gentlemen, you —— —— ——, or I’ll poke you one in the snout!”
Then, packed into their trim white craft, they were gone, leaving Amapala flooded with crisp new American greenbacks.