A middle-aged chambermaid with streaming rusty hair, entering without ceremony, caught his grimace.
“It’s not as bad as it looks. I cleaned it up this morning. It’s the wind. Ain’t it awful? I’ve known people to come into this place when the wind has been blowing as it has to-day, and seen them leave as soon as they seen their bed. They had to come back, as there’s no other place to go, and they’d be no better if there was. But Mr. Patton, that’s the boss, has me go around regular now, and explain. It saves his time. I’ll fix it up for you, so you can be easy as to its being new dirt. It’ll be just as bad as this when you come to go to bed.”
Rickard washed his hands, and fled, leaving the berserker to the clouds of fury she had evoked. The soda-counter was deserted. The youth, divested of his white coat, was relieving Mr. Patton at the register. Rickard followed the sound of voices.
The signals of a new town were waving in the dining-room. The majority of the citizens displayed their shirt-sleeves and unblushing suspenders. One large table was surrounded by men in khaki; the desert-soldiers, engineers. The full blown waitresses, elaborately pompadoured, were pushing through the swing-doors, carrying heavy trays. Their transparent shirt-waists of coarse embroidery or lace were pinned to rusty, badly hung skirts of black alpaca. An apron, the size of a postage stamp, was the only badge of servitude. Coquetry appeared to be their occupation, rather than meal-serving, the diners accepting both varieties of attention with appreciation. The supremacy of those superior maidens was menaced only by two other women who sat at a table near the door. Rickard did not see them at first. The room was as masculine as a restaurant in a new mining town.
A superior Amazon inquired if the gentleman would like vermicelli soup? As he did not even glance at her magnificent pompadour, he was punished by being served last through the entire bill of fare.
He had two men at his table. They were engrossed with their course of boiled beef and spaghetti. Iced tea, instead of wine, was the only variation from the conventional, country hotel dinner.
Rickard left his indoor view to look through the French windows opening on a side street. He noticed a slender but regular procession. All the men passing fell in the same direction.
“Cocktail route,” explained one of his neighbors, his mouth full of boiled beef.
“Oyster cocktail?” smiled the newcomer.
“The real thing! Calexico’s dry, like the whole valley, that is, the county. See that ditch? That is Mexico, on the other side. Those sheds you can see are in Mexicali, Calexico’s twin sister. That painted adobe is the custom house. Mexicali’s not dry, even in summer! You can bet your life on that. You can get all the bad whisky and stale beer you’ve the money to buy. We work in Calexico, and drink in Mexicali. The temperance pledge is kept better in this town than any other town in the valley. But you can see this procession every night.”