Walthew and Grahame drank black coffee; but this had no attraction for the rest. The tramp captain, soon becoming genial, put his feet on a chair and beamed upon his neighbors, while Macallister, as usual, entered into talk with them. He discoursed at random in very bad Castilian, but his remarks were humorous and in spite of the citizens' prejudices, laughter followed them. Watson sat stonily quiet, drinking fiery caña and frowning at the crowd.
"Ye were aye a dumb stirk at Clydebank," Macallister said to him. "Can ye no' talk instead o' glowering like a death's-head?"
"I can when I'm roused," Watson replied. "Maybe ye'll hear something frae me when I'm through wi' this bottle."
"It's the nature o' the man," Macallister informed the others and then, addressing the company, asked if anybody could sing.
No one offered to do so, and, beckoning a dark-complexioned lounger who had a guitar hung round his neck, he brought him to their table and gave him wine. Then he borrowed the guitar, and, somewhat to Grahame's surprise, began a passable rendering of a Spanish song.
The captain beat time with a bottle, some of the company sang the refrain, and, after finishing amidst applause, Macallister tried the music of his native land. In this he was less successful, for the wild airs, written for the bagpipes, did not go well upon the melancholy guitar.
"It's no' the thing at all," Watson remarked. "Ye're just plodding through it like a seven-knot tramp against the tide. Can ye no' open the throttle and give her steam?"
Before Macallister could answer, a neatly dressed gentleman brought a bottle of vermouth from a neighboring table and joined the group.
"You like a drink?" he asked politely.
Watson nodded, and, taking the small bottle, emptied half of the liqueur into his glass.