Francisco, however, missed none of it, for his was the Latin spirit full of love of pleasure and display, bright lights and gay crowds. His uncle watched him intently from under his heavy brows.
Suddenly a weird, unearthly wail arose above the hum of the traffic all around. Elena started up, frightened and trembling, but, as she had heard it before, she recognized it, and fell back asleep again. Francisco had heard it also, but never so close, it seemed right beside him.
"Uncle, may we not go back by the Prensa building and see what has happened?" he cried excitedly.
The Colonel agreed and Enrique crossed to the other side of the street, entering the long line of vehicles going west, for the "rule of the road" in Argentina is "keep to the left." The hoarse, wailing steam whistle had drawn the crowds towards the handsome building from whose tower it was issuing, and they could not reach it within half a block. Mounted policemen were everywhere trying to disperse the crowd. It was good-natured as any Latin crowd, but refused to be moved; like a hot water bag, it bulged out in one spot when pressed down in another. And all of this—because the bulletin methods of this mighty newspaper are so unusual.
Whenever any unexpected occurrence takes place in Europe or any part of the world this enterprising "daily" apprises the public of it by blowing this stridently piercing steam whistle. It was blown when Queen Victoria passed away; its howl distressed the nervous citizens when San Francisco was almost in ashes, and its present message was that a son and heir had been born to the King and Queen of Spain. This was made known from the front steps of the building and very soon the crowd was a cheering, hat-waving mob. It was momentarily growing more excited and Enrique turned into a side street and sped towards the house in Calle Cerrito, where Elena, now thoroughly aroused by the boisterous tumult about them, could be tucked away into bed.
As Francisco and el Coronel Lacevera sat at dinner that evening discussing the event of the afternoon, while softly gliding servants in quiet livery served them, the Colonel said:—
"Did you know, Niño, that every time La Prensa blows that whistle as they did to-day, it costs them three hundred dollars?"
"Why, Uncle Juan, does it use up as much steam as that?" earnestly inquired Francisco.
"Scarcely," laughed the Colonel, as he lifted up an enormous bunch of muscatel grapes, weighing several pounds, from the platter of fruit before him, "scarcely that, Niño, but our city government fines them that amount every time they blow it, as they term it a public nuisance. Now, when they want to indulge in this sensational advertising, they send a messenger on to the Commissaria post haste to deposit the fine, timing his arrival just as the last howl of the whistle sounds across the city."