Everybody within hailing distance gave us kindly greeting. Even an infant, whose age might have been reckoned in months, from where he was snugly seated in a basket, clearly echoed his parents' "Bon di tenga," much to our amusement and to the frankly evident delight of his father and mother.
In the rich, moist soil of that sheltered valley we thought we had discovered the mould in which the gross eighteen-inch radishes are grown. Perhaps it is the nature of that alluvial plain that accounts also for so plentiful a harvest of mosquitoes. Certain it was that they positively swarmed, and that being quick to detect a new and, I trust, delectable flavour in foreigners, they paid us particularly insistent attention, escorting us even to the port, and out on the breakwater that cuts across the inlet, and makes snug haven for the fishing craft and for the few cargo pailebots that anchor in the port. It was fortunate that, unlike those of the Palma mosquitoes, their stings proved harmless.
We had brought tea-things with us, and leaving the Man sketching, seated on a mast that lay under the sea-wall, the Boy and I took the empty kettle, and set off in search of water, and of the men's constant need—tobacco.
The sign over the door of the only shop in the place showed that it was authorized to sell the tobacco that is a Government monopoly of Spain. Going in, we found ourselves in a long, low-ceilinged apartment that might have served for a type of a smugglers' den.
Several people of both sexes were within. From without we had heard the gay clamour of voices, but with our unexpected entrance all seemed stricken dumb. The woman who had been sweeping out the brood of adventurous chickens stopped short, broom in hand, as though turned to stone. The girl mixing something in a bowl paused to stare. The men ceased their loud discussion and gathered in a silent band to learn our business.
We were not altogether unaccustomed to pointed attention. That very day in Andraitx our appearance had aroused something of the interest accorded in an English country town to a circus procession. But the silent scrutiny was distinctly embarrassing. The Boy is rarely abashed, yet his voice faltered a little as, in Spanish, he asked for cigarettes, naming a good brand. On learning that they were not in stock he asked for others, and yet others, lessening the monetary value of his demands until he reached those cigarettes that retail at seven for a halfpenny. But even these were not to be had. "Then what was for sale? Any brand would do."
Hard pressed, the authorized vendor of Government tobacco confessed that he had none in stock.
"But this is the Government tobacco shop, and you are all smoking—what on earth do you smoke, then?" demanded the Boy.
There was a momentary hesitation; then—"We all smoke contraband tobacco, señor," he made reluctant admission.