“What is it, Rocas?” asks the Creole. “Anything about seal-skins?” laying a significant emphasis on the last word.
“Carramba! No. Something of more importance than that.”
“Money, then?”
“Money.”
“Do you wish our speech to be private?”
“Just now, yes. Perhaps, in time, Don Faustino—”
“Oh!” interrupts the ganadero, “don’t let me stand in the way. I’ll ride slowly on; you can overtake me, Don Francisco.”
“Do,” says De Lara, at the same time stooping down in his saddle, and continuing the conversation with Rocas, in tone so low as to prevent their speech being overheard by other queer-looking customers who have just stepped out of the tinacal, and stand loitering at its door.
Whatever Rocas may have said, it appears to make a vivid impression on the gambler. His eyes kindle up with a strange light, in which surprise is succeeded by an expression of cupidity; while his manner proclaims that the revelation made to him is not only important, as he has been forewarned, but also pleasing.
Their muttered dialogue is of brief duration; ending with a remark which shows it to be only preliminary to a further and more prolonged conference.