It was a rambling sort of shack that Nick had dignified by the name of hotel, but quite evidently the landlord took himself seriously.
He was a fat, greasy, long-haired individual, and he spoke in broken English, or in Spanish, according to the preference of his guests.
Nick Carter had been to this place before, but it was several years previously, and the landlord did not remember him.
This was just as well, since Nick had come now in another character than his own, and he stood quietly by, while Phillips informed the landlord that this was his highness, Prince Marcos, of Joyalita, on his way to Penza.
Phillips spoke Spanish, and instantly there was a voluble conversation between the two, with the landlord protesting that everything in this house, as well as in the whole town, was at the disposal of Prince Marcos.
“He’s a liar, your highness,” whispered Phillips to Nick Carter, as he drew a little aside. “His name is Mala. He hates Joyalita and everybody in it. We must watch him.”
“That’s cheerful information,” returned Nick. “I remember seeing the fellow when I motored through here a few years ago. But I had very little to do with him then.”
“He would be all right to an American coming through in a car,” was Phillips’ response. “It is the motor cars that have made this village what it is. Many automobiles pass along every week. Before that nothing was here. Bicycles—that’s all.”
Phillips referred to the useful “bike” in a contemptuous tone. Evidently he regarded it as not worth any consideration.
Mala came forward, rubbing his hands, and asking, in Spanish, if his highness would condescend to honor his humble house till the morning, and what his highness would be graciously pleased to like for supper.