The harbour soon swarms with the countless boats of the natives coming with fruit and wares to sell or hoping to earn a few reales by rowing the curious to the wharf.
Señor Noma engages the largest of these boats and invites as many as it will hold to go ashore with him. He helps in Mrs. Steele, Baron de Bach brings me, and we are soon followed by Captain Ball and his wife, and Miss Rogers, a pretty girl with her photographic camera and her mamma, who is an Episcopal clergyman's wife, and so proud of the circumstance that the gentlemen have dubbed her "The Church of England."
The Mexican oarsmen make one think of comic opera brigands, except that they look rather dirtier and their speech is music without song. We land at a rude wharf in the low sea wall and pass through groups of dark-skinned natives who eye us with sleepy interest. Through narrow streets we troop one after another towards the heart of Mazatlan.
It is oppressively warm, and Captain Ball begs us all to come into a restaurant and get some cooling drink. Mrs. Steele and I have limes and Apollinaris, while Señor Noma, true to his red-hot appetite, tosses off a glass of mezcal, the fire-water of the Mexicans, the most scorching beverage ever concocted.
"How would you like a true Megsican dinair, Mees?" says Señor Noma, blinking a little as the liquid fire pours down his throat. "It ees not bad."
"I should fancy it might be very interesting," I say.
"Well, then, if Madama Steele and the ladies and zhentlemen present will do me so much honour I will await them at the Hotel Nacional at seven o'clock. I must now see a friend. Adios!"
While the rest are taking leave Baron de Bach bows to me with his glass of Rhine wine held out to touch mine. With a comparatively serene face he mutters:
"You talk to efery one but me; I vould like to shoot dhem all."
"It mightn't do," I say, "even in Mexico."