“Insolent foreigner!” said he.
“May Portate be darkened forever!” said I.
“A la cârcel!” said he, and four pink uniforms hustled me and my duck trousers out into the street and around the corner to the jail.
Now that was an unpleasing place to be in. I charged up fifty dollars for the experience, to The Union Electric Company, who said it was a good joke and paid it, eventually; but it wasn't a joke.
The jail was an expanse of deal-wall on the street, except at one place where there was an architectural doorway. And within there was a large patio or courtyard, a low adobe building surrounding it, with rows of open cells, and a sort of cemented veranda in front. That was the Portate City Jail entire. There were guards at the door. They shoved you in, and you did what you chose. There were groups of dirty peons lolling about, others playing some game with pebbles and fragments of cement, two women who had been officially interrupted while pounding each other's heads, a donkey, some cats, and a sad-eyed pig, all arrested for vagrancy.
I sent a guard up to the hotel for a chair, and sat down haughtily in the corner of the veranda behind the gateway and farthest from the sun. The groups of peons gathered around me. Their manners were naturally good, but they couldn't avoid the romantic fascination of me. I sent another guard with a telegram to the United States Minister and a message for the resident Consul. I gave the guard a dollar to buy tobacco and cigarette papers, and compromised with the friendly peons. We agreed on a circle twenty feet away, which was near enough for conversation, and far enough for a draught between. There was a wall of them, all supplied with cigarettes, and me the centre of observation. We discussed the government of Portate, and there was no one in the City Jail but thought it needed reform.
By and by the Consul came, and he was so interested and pleased with the situation that he wasn't up to the duties of his office, as I told him. He said the Mayor was in luck, on account of the extreme heat up-country at the capital.
“My guess at the Mayor is: he's figuring to keep you in jail over night for the sake of his dignity, and cover you with documentary apologies in the morning,” said the Consul. “And I've been telegraphing the Minister, and can't get him; for he's gone hunting up the cool of the mountains with the President of the Republic, the Minister of the Interior, and some other official parties. I say, why did you pick out a festival and presidential excursion day? You bold, bad man! said he, sticking his hands in his pockets and laughing at me.
“Stay here all night!” I shouted.
“Can't help it,” said the Consul, grinning. “I've done all I could. He'll get into trouble likely. What can I do, if he wants to run his risk and stand by his luck?”