This was agreed to, and they hurried on to where there stood a sort of wayside inn—a rambling, two-story affair, built of rough stone and whitewashed.
A tall and not overly-pleasant looking Spaniard received them, and soon Dick had arranged for supper, lodging and breakfast for the entire party.
The wayside inn was almost deserted, only the proprietor, his wife and a negro servant being present.
They were shown to two rooms in the second story—low apartments, but well ventilated—and here their host left them, stating that supper would be ready at seven o'clock.
The boys surveyed the apartments with interest. Each room was perfectly square, with its floor covered with a rough matting of sea-grass. The walls were bare, saving for one or two religious pictures miserably executed. The beds were old-fashioned "four-posters," covered with straw ticks and plain white sheets, nothing more.
"They don't need blankets," observed old Jacob. "A man can keep warm without half tryin'. Thet's why the windows ain't got no glass in 'em, an' there ain't no stoves around."
The rain continued to come down steadily, so that they could not roam about the place. After a general washing up, they went below, to find their host, Jose Maguel, snoring lustily in an easy-chair in the parlor.
"Half-past six," said Menden, looking at his watch. "I wonder what they will give us for supper?"
"He promised us chicken," answered Dick. "But it ought to be cooking by this time."
He walked through the dining-room and into the apartment that did duty as a kitchen. Beyond, in the yard, the servant was stirring up a small charcoal fire, built under a shelter of palm thatch, the sides being open so that the smoke and heat might escape.