Occasionally a wagon, drawn by mules, would make a trip through these mountains. Then there would be some few purchases, mostly of coffee and tobacco, the money being wages received for farming for the few comparatively wealthy men who had a score or so of acres under cultivation and were too lazy to do the work themselves.
If they had not needed coffee and tobacco, nobody would have worked at all.
At a small farmhouse Nick and his party had stopped for the night. The sight of real money had stimulated the woman of the house, and she had actually given up her own room and another to the four wayfarers.
There had been supper and breakfast after a sort, for which Nick Carter had paid with a liberality that the people considered only right for a royal personage.
They knew of Prince Marcos, they said—although this was not his country—and they had heard that he was generous, as well as handsome.
When Nick Carter had paid them for the meals and rooms, they were convinced that common report was correct. The husband, wife, with four or five half-naked children, all agreed that Prince Marcos was magnificently free-handed.
“This next town is called Paron, and it is in Carita, which adjoins Joyalita,” remarked Nick, in a general way, to his companions.
“Carita is the little country that wants to swallow up Joyalita, isn’t it?” asked Chick.
“Yes, sir,” answered Phillips, the valet, who had been silent heretofore, although taking a lively interest in the conversation about him. “Representatives of Carita are at Penza now. I hope we shall get there in time to save Joyalita.”
“We shall do that, Phillips,” promised Nick Carter, without looking around from the steering wheel. “We shall roll into Penza some time in the morning.”