Few authors bother themselves, or their friends either, with maps. But I am an exception. Wherever my bark may be, in whatever part of the globe, on whatever sea, I like to know my bearings and view my position on the chart. It is the same if I journey inland.
Then, when writing my tales, I like my boy and girl readers to be with me, and each of them to keep his or her weather eye lifting, as I do mine. Indeed, as to my latitude and longitude in any portion of this small world, I am as particular and as "pernicketty" as any old maid is over her cat, or her cup of brown tea.
So—if thou lovest me, lad or lass,—just take your atlas and turn to the northern parts of South America, and you shall speedily find Venezuela, and the great Orinoco river also. Cast your eyes inland, along this mighty stream, and you will strike Ciudad Bolivar (Angostura) on the south bank and Soledad on the other.
It was for Soledad that Miguel made tracks first, and here he and his guests went on shore and dined at the poseda or hotel. It was a brisk time here at this business season. For to Soledad come now many a well-laden wain, and many a string of hardy, loaded mules, bringing with them the produce of the northern interior to ship over across stream for Ciudad Bolivar itself.
Tobacco, cereals, horns, hoofs, and hides, with cotton, corn, and rice, great cheeses, poor ill-used pigs, and quacking ducks with fowls in bundles and baskets.
Our heroes were lucky to arrive at such a time, and the landlady, though busy, set aside her best rooms and cooked her best dishes to please the "boy" Miguel, as she fondly called him. The boy had brought his guitar with him, and rejoiced the hearts of many lads and lasses from up country, who had come down with their fathers' wains to buy their dresses and bonnie things, and so go back again happy to the solitude of upland and forest.
Heigho! I fear Miguel was a sad flirt. He wasn't going to play the guitar all the evening, I can assure you. No, he must needs hand the instrument to a friend, while he mingled in the glad, the mad, the merry fandango. Well, those beautifully graceful girl dancers, with their innocent sweetness of face and dark languishing eyes, were enough to make a less susceptive young fellow than Miguel flirt. I cannot say whether Creggan flirted or not—I shouldn't like to say he didn't, but I know he danced, though it was hot work.
Poor Duckling! He was sitting half-hidden in a bank of flowers that adorned one end of the hall.
"I'm too ugly," he told Creggan, "to get a partner. I'll be a wall-flower for one night."
But—think of it—a sweetly pretty girl, after waltzing past through several dances, eyed him many times and oft. I'm sure from what followed that she pitied the poor sailor-boy in his sad loneliness. For presently, fanning herself prettily, she sat near to him.