“I suppose so.”
Appeared Satan, followed by the port men, who tumbled into the boat and rowed off.
“Goin’ ashore?” asked Satan. “Well, I’ll row you to the wharf after I’ve had a bite of supper. Jude’ll bring the boat back, and we can get a shore boat off for half a dollar.”
Half an hour later, just as the electrics were springing alive and the anchor lights of the shipping marking the dusk blue sky, they started. They stood on the wharf steps for a moment watching Jude row off, then they turned to the town.
Havana smells different from any other seaport. She smells of rum and garlic and dirt and cigars and the earth of Cuba, which is different from the earth anywhere else. The harbor and the town exchange bouquets; the negroes help; Spanish cigarettes, Florida water and decaying vegetables lend a hand. Satan led the way. He knew the place as well as the inside of his pocket, and as he trudged along beside Ratcliffe under the electrics across plazas, or through short-cut cut-throat-looking byways, he pointed out the notable features of the place,—Dutch Pete’s, the Alvarez factory, the great opera house, the Calle Commacio, the cathedral.
They passed Florion’s with its marble tables, drinkers, and domino players, and Satan suddenly hove to.
“Where d’you want to go now?” said Satan. “D’you want drinks?”
“No, I don’t want drinks,” said Ratcliffe. “Come over here.”
A blazing cinema palace shone across the way, and they entered, Ratcliffe paying.
The place was in black darkness. A cowboy shooting up a bar was on the screen, and a man with an electric torch led them to their seats.