Just then another man passed us at a brisk pace and the poor countryman appealed to him for advice. The newcomer was quite evidently a Porteño, a man under thirty, good-looking, with the frank and open countenance one recognizes at once as belonging to an honest man. His appearance was that of a clerk or small merchant. Knowing the countryman was in good hands, I turned away again.
But he called me back, apparently feeling more secure with me nearby. Then he told the newcomer of his hard luck. Naturally the latter was as sorry as I was. He expressed his sympathy and started on, but the countryman begged not to be abandoned in his trouble. The newcomer yielded good-naturedly to the whim of the yokel and we fell into conversation.
“You are English?” remarked the townsman, casually, but before I could answer, the countryman said with an air of finality, “No, he is German,” and as it was easier to let it go at that than to bother to correct him, I nodded. We strolled along for a block, puzzling over the sad predicament of the countryman. At length the Porteño asked pardon for butting into any man’s private affairs, but, “Did this changador get away with any of your money in the grip, too?”
“Ah, no; there I am lucky!” cried the estanciero. “Just before the train got into the station I opened the maleta and took out this roll of billetes; it is seven thousand pesos”—in the utmost innocence the fellow drew out the roll, large as a man’s forearm, a hundred-peso bill in plain sight on top. I was about to protest when the other man did so, crying:
“But, my dear sir! Do you know me? Or do you know this gentleman? Then don’t you know better than to flash seven thousand pesos around in the public streets? Why, if we were not respectable men we might tell you we knew where this Dr. Martinez lives and then lead you into any old corner and give you a puñalado and....”
“Oh, I can tell you are honest men,” replied the countryman, with a childlike smile, at which the other turned to me with:
“You see these country people live so simply and honestly at home they never dream of the dangers of the cities.”
“Yes,” I replied. Then to the countryman, “But one mustn’t always judge people by their faces,” for it was evidently up to me to say something of a harsh nature to the simple rustic.
“Exactly,” said the Porteño; “we can see a man’s face but not his heart.”
Still the countryman seemed to prefer to trust to his own judgment of physiognomy and implored us to help him find this Dr. Martinez, saying that if it was a matter of giving us ten or twenty pesos each for our trouble he would be glad to do so. The Porteño forestalled my protest by saying we were not that sort of men but that we would be glad to give him any assistance possible, out of charity. So we set out along a side street, telling the countryman to walk ahead.