The waiter was puzzled, but not alarmed. He embraced himself as his customer had done, and shuddered; then pointing at the bitters, he nodded encouragingly.
O'Reilly forestalled an outburst by translating his countryman's wants. "Un vaso de agua con hielo," said he, and the attendant was all apologies.
"So, you speak the lingo?" marveled Mr. Branch. "Well, I can't get the hang of it. Don't like it. Don't like anything Spanish. Hell of a country, isn't it? where the ice is 'YELLOW' and the butter is 'MEANT TO KILL YOU,' and does."
O'Reilly laughed. "You've been studying a guide-book, 'with complete glossary of Spanish phrases.' By the way, Carbajal said you are a writer."
Mr. Branch nodded listlessly. "I'm supposed to report this insurrection, but the Spaniards won't let me. They edit my stuff to suit themselves. I'm getting tired of the farce."
"Going home?"
"Don't dare." The speaker tapped his concave chest. "Bum lungs. I came down here to shuffle off, and I'm waiting for it to happen. What brings you to Cuba?"
"I'm here for my health, too." The real invalid stared. "I have rheumatism."
"Going to sweat it out, eh? Well, there's nothing to do but sweat"—Branch was racked by a coughing spasm that shook his reedy frame—"sweat and cough. Bullets! No mistake about that hospital bark, is there?" When he had regained his breath he said: "See here! I'm going to take a chance with you, for I like your looks. My newspaper work is a bluff: I don't send enough stuff to keep me alive. I come here to cure my lungs, and—I want you to help me do it."
O'Reilly stared at the man in surprise. "How can I help you?" he asked.