"I am not a monarchist, nor yet a suspect," said Angus Jones.
"You're the only man around here who can say so. A word of advice. Go straight to the alfandega and pay your tax. If any one hears you're trying to get away without squaring yourself with the authorities, you'll more likely get a free passage to jail."
"Sir—!"
"And I'll ask you kindly not to hang about my place. Now, I've done my best for you. Va-se'mbora!"
In the street Angus Jones deigned to question me.
"What is this unlucky tax?"
"It is levied on every one who chooses to export himself from these salubrious shores," I explained. "It is a matter of five hundred reis."
That brought him to a dead halt in his tracks.
"How did you thrive in the mountains?" I was moved to ask.
"Moderately, as a corn doctor. It is their simple custom to wear shoes three sizes too small. The only drawback was the absence of currency. When I came to collect, what was my grief to find they still rely on barter and exchange."