Sard propped his bicycle against the gates and hammered on the lodge-door with his knife-handle.
Nobody answered. The door, which stood slightly ajar, let out a smell of stale tortilla. Sard could see little pale ants wandering on the floor within. He hammered again and again and called. Presently a slatternly-young negress, in a blue cotton gown patched with sacking, came up among the pine trees, and grinned at Sard like an idiot.
“O Jesu,” she said, “O Jesu!”
“Can I go to the house? Is anybody there?”
“The gates are always locked.”
“Yes, but I want to go to the house.”
“Tehee.”
“May I go to the house, to see Mr. Kingsborough?”
“O Jesu.”
“I am going to the house. See that no one steals this bicycle, or you’ll be a sick negress, mucha, mucha.”