“What breed may your admirable Crichton be?” asks another of the guests, adding: “He looks a cross between Spaniard and Indian.”
“Just what he is,” answers the young planter; “at least says so. By his own account his father was a Spaniard, or rather a Mexican, and his mother an Indian of the Seminole tribe. His real name is Fernandez; but for convenience I’ve dropped the final syllable.”
“It’s a bad sort of mixture, that between Spaniard and Seminole, and not improved by the Spaniard being a Mexican,” remarks he who made the inquiry.
“I don’t like his looks,” observes a third speaker.
Then all around the table wait to hear what Wharton, the young surgeon, has to say. For it is evident, from his way of introducing the subject, he either knows or suspects something prejudicial to the character of the major-domo. Instead of going on to explain, he puts a second interrogatory—
“May I ask, M. Dupré, whether you had any character with him?”
“No, indeed,” admits the master. “He came to me just before we left Natchitoches asking for an engagement. He professed to know all about Texas, and offered to act as a guide. As I had engaged guides, I didn’t want him for that when he said any other place would do. Seeing him to be a smart sort of fellow, which he certainly has proved, I engaged him to look after my baggage. Since, I’ve found him useful in other ways, and have given him full charge of everything—even to entrusting him with the care of my modest money chest.”
“In doing that,” rejoins the surgeon, “I should say you’ve acted somewhat imprudently. Excuse me, M. Dupré, for making the observation.”
“Oh, certainly,” is the planter’s frank reply. “But why do you say so, Mr Wharton? Have you any reason to suspect his honesty?”
“I have; more than one.”