“May I ask if it was the Adventist, from San Mateo Obispo, got them into their present state?”
“It was not the Adventist; but they saw a miraculous appearance in the clearing not far from here.”
“Then it will be three days before anyone gets an hour’s work from them. Oil in the coffee, chilis in the bread, eggs in the shoes—oh, don’t I know these soul’s awakenings.”
Something in the man’s tone jarred Hilary. He looked a most benign old man, with a fresh colour, bright eyes and long white silky beard. He had the appearance of Father Christmas. Yet this last remark, about the spiritual excitements of others, struck Hilary as hard and vulgar. He looked at Mr. Brown and decided that here was something hard and ugly about the man’s mouth, for all that holy white hair.
“Now, Mr. Kingsborough,” Mr. Brown continued, “I don’t want even to seem to be in a hurry or to be pressing you. Miss Kingsborough spoke of preparing some food. Well: food is the best remedy yet found for hunger; I’ll say nothing against food. But meanwhile, can’t I be moving some bags or things for you out to the surrey? Miss Kingsborough will want a warm wrap: the breeze is setting in; and though it is only a mile or two into town, it is going to be cold.”
“Oh, thank you,” Hilary said, “it won’t take a minute to get all that we need.”
“No, surely,” Mr. Brown answered. “No, indeed.”
He sat down away from the light, and dusted his hat with his handkerchief. A restraint came upon the conversation. Mr. Brown felt the chill and tried to remove it.
“It is this rum-running which leads to all the crime along this part of the coast,” he said, “This republic is a very nice republic: I don’t say it isn’t, but it’s as slack as one of these republics always is so long after any revolution. The public services are away down. Then that old sinner, the Dictator, Don Manuel, out in Santa Barbara, sees a chance to profit. He can make rum, in his sugar-plantations, which have every natural power just beside them, water power as well as fuel, and all just near the sea, for not any more than five or seven cents a gallon. In a good year I guess he might get it out as low as even three cents for a gallon. Mind you, Mr. Kingsborough, I’m speaking of a low grade of rum. Santa Barbara can’t compete with Jamaica, nor with Santa Cruz; but it is rum; it scratches as it glides; as they say. Well, now, say, he makes it at as high as seven cents. He can get it aboard his big power lighters and land it on the coast here at twenty cents the gallon. Then, what with mule teams and palm-oil and what is known here as the underground railway, he can get it up as far as the mines in Palo Seco for half a dollar. Now in Palo Seco he has no opposition, Mr. Kingsborough. No other rum has a geographical chance of coming in. Well, now, in Palo Seco, where I have been, studying this question, he can sell that rum and has been selling that rum for close upon two years, to gold-miners, who care not one jack-straw what they pay nor what they drink, as long as it scratches as it glides. He sells that rum, which cost him, say, seven cents to make and forty-three cents to transport, for from eight to twelve American dollars: yes, sir, two or three dollars the quart. I’ve seen him do it, or at least his agents. Now that is a good business, Mr. Kingsborough, even allowing for losses, thefts and the squaring of the vicious circle.”
“What is that?” Hilary asked.