“How will you catch him?” asked Rio, bending over the bananas for a possible sight of the creature.
The boy cracked his whip and pointed to the edge of the wharf. At his command several children ran and brought back an old piece of tarpaulin. This they held silently over the bananas, making sure that no light could filter in. Then the boy drew a line in the sand and spoke softly in a jargon unfamiliar to Rio. Whereupon with a shout the others threw back the canvas and a large, hairy spider which had crawled out into the darkness was revealed. The boy flicked his little whip—and the tarantula was divided. For a second, the halves quivered. The beauty of the boy’s eyes sharpened and the other children shrieked with glee. When the quivering ceased the lad stooped, and picking up one broken part of the spider, fastened it to the end of his whip. Rio dropped a penny, studying the little fellow, who looked down admiringly at his kill and at the coin.
Rio was suddenly thirsty and headed down a road by the sea for the town. It was a hot patch to cross that day and he stopped often to look at the harbor which somehow gave him the illusion of coolness. Once, as he stood, he noticed the boy with the little whip silently following. Rio put his hands on his hips and waited for him.
The child was excited, but restrained. He had been running and was breathing rapidly. His shirt was open and the damp cotton fabric was plastered to his slender body. Ringlets of dark copper hung to the small beads of perspiration on his forehead or curled away from his brow. His intense brown eyes looked directly at Rio and he stood most straight as though expectant and afraid. Rio was struck by the attitude and by the sudden unnatural impression of maturity. He had never seen a lad so full of fever—and knew this picture was as colorful as any wild and distant fragment of his own. The boy stepped nearer and pointed toward the town.
“May I walk through you, sir mate?” he asked.
Rio nodded his head and when the boy came alongside he dropped his hand on his shoulder. The lad was shaking. Rio took his hand away and the boy quieted. Rio started sweating. This wasn’t sense. He walked on more rapidly, the boy keeping pace with him.
“The Cafe El Americano stays open long, sir mate. Will you not see my sister first? She comes from the sea.” The child took long strides, matching those of Rio. He was nearly breathless. “Always ... out of the sea ... come our sisters and daughters.... Even to your big hefty.”
The sidewalks were narrow and Rio sat down on the curb and rocked and laughed and rocked till the charming old ladies crossed both themselves and the street for the rum this sailor must have taken. In solemn condemnation, they shook their fingers behind black fans with each other—but hastened away where they could laugh delightedly in their loneliness. At last, Rio stood up and wiped his eyes. He gave the boy ten cents in silver, looked at the drying tarantula still fastened to the little whip, and entered the Cafe El Americano. The lad’s face was wistful. He shook the spider violently, flinging up one delicate, brown hand.
Instead of standing at the bar, a group of seamen had grabbed some chairs and were sitting around while the proprietor brought drinks. Rio pulled up a chair and asked for a rum punch. The seamen were from the other ship and he did not know any of them. They were teasing a young sailor who was apparently making his first trip. The boy looked sullen. One good-natured seaman with the face of a German butcher whom the others called “Dutch,” was particularly amused. He turned to Rio, who was near him, and said, “The kid did like all of us, first time out—struck bells for stars, thinkin’ they was ships’ lights. The pay-off came after the mate gave him the devil and told him not to miss a god-damned ship, but to skip the stars; for we met the whole Pacific Fleet doin’ maneuvers, and the kid hit so many bells the Old Man came down and asked where in hell the fire was.”
The sailors roared and Rio smiled; but the harassed young seaman said, “Aw, shut up. God! You’ve told that fifteen times.” His face was as red as the German’s.