“Mortgaged—months ago—up to the eyes, the ears, crown of the head. That’s where the cash came from to set up the bank that’s broke—breaking me along with it.”
“And you’ve nothing left? No chance for starting it again?”
“Not a claco. Here I am apparently in my own house, with servants, such as they are, around me. It’s all in appearance. In reality, I’m not the owner. I once was, as my father before me; but can’t claim to be any longer. Even while we’re sitting here, drinking this Catalan, the mortgagee—that old usurer Martinez—may step in and turn—kick us both out.”
“I’d like him to try. He’d catch a Tartar, if he attempted to kick me out—he or anybody else just now, in my present humour. There’s far more reason for us to fear being pulled out by policemen, which makes it risky to stay talking. So let’s to the point at once—back to where we left off. On your oath, Faustino Calderon, you’re no longer a man of means?”
“On my oath, Francisco de Lara, I haven’t an onza left—no, not a peso.”
“Enough. Now that I know your financial status, we will understand one another; and without further circumlocution I shall make you a sharer of the bright thought that’s flashed across my brain.”
“Let me hear what it is. I’m all impatience.”
“Not so fast, Faustino. As I’ve already twice told you, it’s no child’s play; but a business that requires skill and courage. Above all, fidelity among those who may engage in it—for more than two are needed. It will want at least four good and true men. I know three of them; about the fourth I’m not so certain.”
“Who are the three?”
“Francisco de Lara, Manuel Diaz, and Raphael Rocas.”