“What do you think of that poor fellow?” said the Porteño; “and what if he had fallen in with some dishonest shyster instead of us? Say, you know I think the man is ill and....”
“Oh, señor,” he called to him, “you won’t think I am prying into your private affairs, but is it some medical matter you want to see this Dr. Martinez about? Because if it is, you know there are so many fakes posing as doctors here in the city....”
“No, no; it is not for a medical matter at all,” returned the countryman; “it is merely a family affair,” and he went on again. But before long he turned back and to my astonishment there were tears visible on his cheeks.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “it is true I do not know you, but I have seen and talked with you and I am sure you are honest men, not the kind who would outwit a poor countryman who knows nothing of the city and its ways. So I am going to tell you just how things stand so you can advise me what to do.
“My father and I own a big estancia down near Bahía Blanca. We are very well-to-do—you will excuse my mentioning that—though we do not know much of cities and their ways. Some time ago a man living on our estancia died. He was thought to be a beggar, but when we came to disinfect his hut what was our surprise to find inside his old mattress seven thousand pesos in these little round gringo gold pieces....”
“Ah, he means English sovereigns,” put in the Porteño.
“Father was going to turn this over to the authorities,” the countryman went on, “but our lawyer laughed at the idea, as the fellow had no heirs and the authorities would only stick it into their own pockets. And as the man had lived and died on our estancia, surely no one was more entitled to the money than father. So he put it away in his strong boxes—though, to be sure, it was a small amount to us and we never needed it. Well, a few weeks ago my poor papá”—here he wiped away a tear—“was riding along when his horse ran into a cerco de alambre de púas. But perhaps you city gentlemen do not know what a cerco de alambre de púas is?”
“Oh, yes,” we both cried, and the Porteño added, “it is that wire with sharp points on it that you use out in the country to keep the cattle or horses in a field.”
“Well, my poor father rode into one of those fences and his face was so cut and torn that it has all turned black on that side, and the doctor came and told us it was scurvy or cancer or some of those awful diseases with a long name, and that poor papá would never get well.”
When he had blown his nose the campesino went on, and one could not help pitying the poor chap, trying to hide his grief, for the people of South America certainly have much family affection, especially those from the country: