“You had better stop here; I won’t be longer than I can help,” he said. “They’ll make you a rather nice iced drink of Canary tinto.”
“Just so,” Jake replied. “Tinto’s a thin, sour claret, isn’t it? In New York not long ago you could get iced buttermilk. Can’t say I was fond of it, but I reckon it’s as exhilarating as the other stuff.”
Dick left him with some misgivings and went about his business. It was eight o’clock in the evening and the foundry would be closed, but he knew where the manager lived and went to his house, which was situated in the older part of the city. He had not taken Jake because he had to pass some of the less reputable cafés and gambling dens and thought it undesirable that the lad should know where they were. The foundry manager was not at home, but a languishing young woman with a thickly powdered face, who called her mother before she conferred with Dick, told him where Don Tomas had gone, and Dick set off again in search of the café she named.
A half moon hung low in the clear sky, but, for the most part, its light only reached a short distance down the white and yellow fronts of the flat-topped houses. These got light and air from the central courtyard, or patio, and the outer walls were only pierced by one or two very narrow windows at some height from the ground. The openings were marked here and there by a faint glow from within, which was often broken by a shadowy female form leaning against the bars and speaking softly to another figure on the pavement below.
There were few street lamps, and in places the houses crowded in upon the narrow strip of gloom through which Dick picked his way with echoing steps. Most of the citizens were in the plaza, and the streets were quiet except for the measured beat of the surf and the distant music of the band. A smell of rancid oil and garlic, mingled with the strong perfumes Spanish women use, hung about the buildings, but now and then a puff of cooler air flowed through a dark opening and brought with it the keen freshness of the sea. Once the melancholy note of a guitar came down from a roof and somebody began to sing in a voice that quivered with fantastic tremolos.
Dick went carefully, keeping as far as possible away from the walls. In Santa Brigida, all white men were supposed to be rich, and the honesty of the darker part of its mixed population was open to doubt. Besides, he had learned that the fair-skinned Northerners were disliked. They brought money, which was needed, into the country, but they also brought machines and business methods that threatened to disturb the tranquillity the Latin half-breed enjoyed. The latter must be beaten in industrial strife and, exchanging independence for higher wages, become subject to a more vigorous, mercantile race. The half-breeds seemed to know this, and regarded the foreigners with jealous eyes. For all that, Dick carried no weapons. A pistol large enough to be of use was an awkward thing to hide, and he agreed with Bethune that to wear it ostentatiously was more likely to provoke than avoid attack.
Once he thought he was followed, but when he stopped to look round, the shadowy figure behind turned into a side street, and he presently found the man he was in search of in a quiet café. He spent some time explaining the drawings of the patterns that would be required before Don Tomas undertook to make the castings, and then languidly leaned back in his chair. His head had begun to ache again and he felt strangely limp and tired. The fever was returning, as it did at night, but he roused himself by and by and set off to visit the doctor.
On his way he passed the casino and, to his surprise, saw Jake coming down the steps. Dick frowned when they met.
“How did you get in?” he asked. “It’s the rule for somebody to put your name down on your first visit.”
“So it seemed,” said Jake. “There are, however, ways of getting over such difficulties, and a dollar goes some distance in this country; much farther, in fact, than it does in ours.”