Harman was in one of his meditative fits.
“That chap you brought aboard to-day,” said he, “the big one with the whiskers, was he Alonez or was it the little ’un?”
“The big one,” said Davis. “He’s the chap that’ll take the cargo off us and the little one will take the ship—I haven’t said a word of the price, haven’t said I was particularly wanting to sell, but I’ve given them a smell of the toasted cheese, and if I know anything of anything, they’re setting on their hind legs now in some café smoothing their whiskers and making ready to pounce. They’re partners, they own all that block of stores on the Calle San Pedro, and the little one does the shipping business. He’s Portuguese, pure. Pereira’s his name. I’m going up to his house to-night to talk business.”
“Well,” said Harman, “if he’s going to buy, he’s got the specifications, he’s been over her from the truck to the lazarette, and I thought he’d be pullin’ the nails out of her to see what they were like. When are you goin’?”
“Eight,” replied Davis, and at eight o’clock, amidst the usual illuminations and fireworks with which Buenodiaz bedecks herself on most nights, he went, leaving Harman to keep ship. He returned at twelve o’clock and found Harman in his bunk snoring. At breakfast next morning he told of his visit. He had done no business in particular beyond mentioning the outside price that he could take for the Araya should he care to sell her. Mrs. Pereira and her daughter had been there and the girl was a peach.
Harman absorbed this news without interest, merely reminding the other that they weren’t “dealin’ in fruit,” but as two more days added themselves together producing nothing but church processions, brass bands and fireworks, Mr. Harman fell out of tune with himself and the world and the ways of this “dam garlic factory.” Davis was acting strangely, nearly always ashore and never returning till midnight. He said the deal was going through, but that it took time, that they weren’t selling a mustang, that he wouldn’t be hustled and that Harman, if he didn’t like waiting, had better go and stick his head in the harbour.
Harman closed up, but that night he accompanied Davis ashore, and instead of playing roulette at the little gambling shop in La Plazza, he hung around the Pereiras’ house in Assumption Street listening and watching in the moonlight. He heard the tune of a guitar and a girl’s voice singing La Paloma, then came a great silence that lasted an hour and a half, and then came Davis. Hidden in a dark corner, Billy saw that he was not alone. A girl was with him, come out to bid him good-night. She was short, dark and lovely, but the look of adoration on her face as she turned it up for a kiss, left Harman quite cold.
Down by-lanes and cut-throat alleys he made his way running, got to the mole before the other and was rowed off in the same boat. On board he invited the other down below and down below he exploded.
“I ain’t wantin’ to interfere with any man’s diversions,” said Mr. Harman. “I ain’t no prude, women is women, and business is business, do you get what I’m meanin’? I saw you. I ain’t accusin’ you of nuthin’—but bein’ a fool. Us with a stole ship on our backs and Penhill feelin’ for us and you playin’ the goat with Pereira’s daughter. What kind of deal do you expect to make and a woman hangin’ on to it with her teeth. You needn’t go denyin’ of it. I saw you.”
The male and female run through all things, even partnerships, and in the Harman-Davis syndicate it was Harman who wore the skirts. Davis could not get a word in till the other had worked himself free of his indignation and the subject. Then said Davis: “If you’ll shut your beastly head, I’ll maybe be able to stuff some sense into it. What were you talking about, selling the schooner? It’s sold.”