“Hi,” she said, “you really are a dear.” She caught him by the neck and kissed his forehead.
“Somewhat rougey,” Hi thought, as he mopped his brow, while he drove with Don Inocencio. “But an awfully good-hearted sort, Rosa.”
* * * * * * *
The drive to the hotel was interesting; Hi had never before seen a city in a state of excitement. The newsboys were crying special editions; parties of men and boys were marching to drums and fifes under Red banners; certain shops, which did not display Red colours, were having their windows broken. On the water-front a guardia warned Don Inocencio and his driver that the Martial Law was proclaimed, and that all carriages were to be off the streets by eight o’clock. “Bad, bad,” Don Inocencio muttered. “I know not which of us will escape such nets.” He left Hi at his hotel.
Here Hi found two envelopes waiting for him. The first contained a printed card from Roger Weycock, asking him to attend a special meeting of the English in Santa Barbara, at the Club, at seven o’clock that evening; the second contained a similar card, with a few words written in pencil by Allan Winter: “Don’t go to this. Keep clear of politics here.—A. W.” The cards had been hurriedly printed, probably as soon as the proclamation had appeared, the ink on them was still moist.
“Winter was right,” Hi thought. “Weycock is in with the Reds, trying to turn English opinion that way, He’s organising this meeting for that end. But Winter’s right; we ought to keep clear of politics here; I won’t go. But all the same, I am jolly well a White in this business, and I’ll help the Whites all I can. By George, I suppose those devils, the Reds, could arrest me for carrying letters.”
* * * * * * *
The sun was setting when he drove off in a caleche for the de Leyva house at Medinas. On his way, he saw scenes between parties of Reds and Whites which made him wonder at the strength of the feelings between them. “Killing Chavez and claiming to be God did not rouse this,” he thought. “This hate has been simmering for years; this is only the boiling over.”
At the West Gate, a Red patrol was stopping the traffic for examination before permitting it to pass; its officer turned back a carriage which had been trundling in front of Hi for some minutes. He then came forward to question Hi, found that he was English and allowed him to proceed. He did this, as Hi thought, grudgingly, in a way which made him wonder, whether the English were as much loved as his father had always said.
Beyond the gate, the Anselmo road was a narrow street from which narrow courts opened. Street and courts swarmed with people, all talking at the tops of their voices, but above all the talking the harsh bellow of public orators in praise of violence sounded. The place stank of mice, sweat, fried fish and damp washing. Hi called to the driver: “Is this Medinas?”