As I ate my supper with the alcalde and his compact little family, I could not help chuckling at the advantage I had gained over my supperless, and, no doubt, sleepless companions. Neither was my exultation diminished when, near the end of the repast, old José Maria stepped up to an alcove and drew out a quaint, queer old bottle, whose waxen seal conjured up exciting visions of the port of Funchal and the peak of Teneriffe.
I was fortunately enabled, through my cigar-case, to contribute to the evening’s entertainment; and my host and I sat for an hour after the ladies had retired, discussing our wine and tobacco, and talking of the Texan Rangers, of which corps the worthy magistrate had rather a low opinion. It appeared that they had paid the neighbourhood a visit not long before, behaving upon the occasion in no very creditable manner.
It was late, or early if you will, when José inverted the bottle for the last time, and pressing my hand with a “posa V. buena noche!” the Mexican showed me to my chamber. Here I found one of the great and rare luxuries of this land—a couch with clean sheets; and in the “twinkling of a bedpost” I was between the latter, and forgetful of everything.
When I awoke in the morning, I found my comrades in the piazza, making ready to start. It was still only grey dawn, but as they were all sadly flea-bitten, and knew that nothing could be had to eat in San Cristobal, they had made up their minds to ride on, and breakfast at Guadalupe. I was preparing to accompany them, when José whispered in my ear that breakfast would be on the table in five minutes, and I must wait for it. This was a tempting offer. My health was excellent, and half-a-dozen mouthfuls of the fresh morning air had given me a keen appetite.
“If the breakfast,” thought I, “bear any sort of proportion to last night’s supper, it’s worth waiting for; better than we are likely to get at Guadalupe; besides, ‘a bird in the hand,’” etc. I could soon overtake my companions on my fine mare, which had by this time proved herself a first-class roadster.
I placed my lips under the broad brim of Josh’s, and repeated the words, “Con gusto.”
“Esta bueno,” replied José, slipping back into his house.
The next moment my companions had ridden off into the obscure twilight, and I was left alone in the village. None of my friends, I believe, had noticed that I stayed behind; and if they had, it would not have called forth a remark, as I was considered old enough to take care of myself.
My host proved as good as his word; for in five minutes, or less, the breakfast was steaming on the table; nor did it do any discredit to the supper. There were ham and eggs; a ham omelette; a chicken fricase; a dish of chile rilléno; another of chilé Colorado; plenty of good claret, to wash down the peppers; and after that, a cup of the coffee which only Spaniards can make. Then there was a glass of good old Maraschino, and a cigar to “top off with,” and as the morning was now tiptoe, I rose to take my leave. I shook hands with the señora, then with the señorita; and, amidst a shower of benedictions, I walked forth, followed by José Maria himself. My mare stood near the door, ready saddled. I threw the bridle over her neck, and was about to plant my foot in the stirrup, when my host touched me lightly on the left arm, and holding out a small slip of paper, with a sort of apologetic smile, uttered the words, “Sa cuenta chiquita, capitan.” (The small bill, captain.)
“A bill!” I exclaimed, as soon as I had recovered from my astonishment.