THEY were seated at the tiny tea table when the sound of feet crunching the little shell-paved path through the patio caused Webster and Dolores to turn their heads simultaneously. Coming toward them was an individual who wore upon a head of flaming red a disreputable, conical-crowned straw sombrero; a soiled cotton camisa with the tails flowing free of his equally soiled khaki trousers, and sandals of the kind known as alpargates—made from the tough fibre of a plant of the cactus family and worn only by the very lowliest peons—completed his singular attire.
“Hello!” Webster murmured whimsically. “Look who's here!”
“One of Billy's friends and another reason why he has no social standing,” Dolores whispered. “I believe he's going to speak to us.”
Such evidently appeared to be the man's intention. He came to the edge of the veranda, swept his ruin of a hat from his red head and bowed with Castilian expansiveness.
“Yer pardon, Miss, for appearin' before you.” She smiled her forgiveness to what Webster how perceived to be an alcoholic wreck. He was about to dismiss the fellow with scant ceremony, when Dolores, with that rich sense of almost masculine humour—a humour that was distinctly American—said sweetly:
“Mr. Webster, shake hands with Don Juan Cafetéro, bon vivant and man about town. Don Juan, permit me to present Mr. Webster, from somewhere in the United States. Mr. Webster is a mining partner of our mutual friend Mr. William Geary.”
A long, sad descent into the Pit had, however, imbued Don Juan with a sense of his degradation; he was in the presence of a superior, and he acknowledged the introduction with a respectful inclination of his head.
“'Tis you I've called to see, Misther Webster, sor,” he explained.
“Very well, old-timer. In what way can I be of service to you?”
“'Tis the other way around, sor, if ye plaze, an' for that same there's no charrge, seein' ye're the partner, av that fine, kind gintleman, Misther Geary Sure 'tis he that's the free-handed lad wit' his money whin he has it, God bless him, an' may the heavens be his bed, although be the same token I can see wit' the half av an eye that 'tis yerself thinks nothin' av a dollar, or five, for that matther. However, sor, that's neither here nor there. Did ye, whilst in New Orleans, have d'alings wit' a short, shtout spiggoty wit' a puckered scar undher his right eye?”