A wisp of an elderly man appeared in the moonlit patio, with no more sound than the rustle of a dry leaf. He seemed to move with an habitual air of stealth. Bent and meager, his linen clothes flapped on him. He peered this way and that. The little brown monkey came dancing down from the trellis and perched, chattering, upon his shoulder. He stood fanning himself with a dingy straw hat. He was short of breath, wheezing audibly. No matter how trifling his errands, it was to be conjectured that he always flitted to and fro in a hurried, secretive manner.
Teresa moved out of the shadows. He jumped back, easily startled. His niece called out some affectionate Spanish phrase and dutifully advanced to embrace him. Señor Ramon Bazán pecked at her cheek, cackled a welcome, and wriggled clear. He was fascinated by the formidable size of the stranger who hovered between the galleon bell and the oleander tree. It was a phenomenon that provoked excited curiosity.
Uncle Ramon Bazán sputtered questions. Teresa proudly presented the second officer of the Tarragona who felt baffled because he could talk no Spanish. This failed to check the wordy welcome of the uncle of Teresa. He was impressed and amused. On tiptoe he patted Cary’s mighty shoulder and measured his height. It was like a terrier making friends with a Saint Bernard.
“He says you are as big as the hill of La Popa,” swiftly interpreted Teresa. “You do his poor house an honor. Everything in it is yours. You have made a delicious hit with him, Ricardo. He does not like many people.”
Cary bowed and conveyed his thanks. Uncle Ramon chuckled like the squeak of a rusty hinge. He had made a joke, explained Teresa. Why offer the house to this Señor Cary when he could easily carry it off on his back if he felt so disposed? They found chairs near the fountain. The Indian muchacho brought glasses of iced lemonade. Cary smoked his pipe and idly listened. To hear Teresa’s voice, flowing, musical, talking in the language of her native Cartagena, was a new delight.
Presently the wee brown monkey clambered to his knee and sat there. The wrinkled visage bore an odd resemblance to that of Señor Ramon Bazán. Richard Cary knocked the ashes from his briar pipe and laid it on the bench beside him. The monkey noted the procedure, with a grave scrutiny. Then it picked up the pipe, carefully rapped the bowl against Cary’s knee, and inserted the stem between its teeth. Cary courteously offered his match-box and tobacco-pouch. Uncle Ramon’s shrill mirth was so violent that a coughing fit was nearly the death of him. Teresa was gleeful because to win the monkey’s favor was a signal distinction. In her uncle’s sight, it was the final seal of approval.
Soon it was time to go back to the ship. The host escorted them to the street and sent the Indian lad in quest of a carriage. He warmly urged Richard Cary to make the house his home whenever he was in port. It was expressed with gusto. They left him in the doorway, a bizarre figure, the monkey tucked under one arm.
“Never have I seen my uncle like this,” said Teresa as they drove away. “He hates ’most everybody. You are his big pet, Ricardo. Any favor you ask, he will tumble over himself to do it.”
“I was sorry I couldn’t have a chat with him, he seemed so cordial. A comical old chap.”
“Pooh, he can talk English when he wants to. He lived in Washington one time, for the government at Bogotá. He is funny. To-night it was a trick, his talking only Spanish. Maybe you would say something about him to me, eh? He was sizing you up. He is just as sly as that little monkey. But I must not speak so horrid of my uncle. He is a very old man—cracked—some bats in the cabeza. How old do you think he is?”