“I say what I have said, amigo! There is no more cholera in Bodega Central than there is in heaven! I arrived there day before yesterday, and left before sunrise this morning. So I should know.”
Josè sank weakly down at the man’s side. “But––Don Jorge––Feliz Gomez returned from there three nights ago, and reported that a Turk, who had come up from the coast, had died of the plague!”
Don Jorge’s brows knit in perplexity. “I recall now,” he said slowly, after some moments of study. “The innkeeper did say that a Turk had died there––some sort of intestinal trouble, I believe. When I told him I was bound for Simití, he laughed as if he would split, and then began to talk about the great fright he had given a man from here. Said he scared the fellow until his black face turned white. But I was occupied with my own affairs, and paid him little attention. But come, tell me all about it.”
With the truth slowly dawning upon his clouded thought, Josè related the grewsome experiences of the past three days.
“Ca-ram-ba!” Don Jorge whistled softly. “Who would have thought it! But, was Feliz Gomez sick before he went to Bodega Central?”
“I do not know,” replied Josè.
“Yes, señor,” interposed Rosendo. “He and Amado Sanchez both had bowel trouble. Their women told my wife so, after you and I, Padre, had come up here to the hill. But it was nothing. We have it here often, as you know.”
“True,” assented Josè, “but we have never given it any serious thought.”
Don Jorge leaned back and broke into a roar of laughter. “Por el amor del cielo! You are all crazy, amigo––you die like rats of fear! Did you ever put a mouse into a bottle and then scare it to death with a loud noise? Hombre! That is what has happened to you!” The hill reverberated with his loud shouts.