Watson smiled. With a gesture of leave-taking, he went on towards his quarters. But at the end of a few yards he stopped to reply to the greeting of a young man, who in his city clothes looked as though he might be a government clerk. His round, shell-rimmed glasses re-enforced this impression, as well as the memorandum books and loose papers that he was carrying under his arm. He gave every indication of being one of those hard-working employees, who, falling into the deep ruts of routine, become incapable of initiative, or of any project requiring ambition, but live along from year to year, perfectly satisfied with the mediocrity of which they have become a part.
This was Timoteo Moreno, born in Argentina of Spanish parents. The Commissioner of Public Works had sent him as his representative to the works at the dam, and it was his chief responsibility to pay to the contractor Pirovani the money sent on for that purpose by the government.
He had just greeted Watson when he slapped his forehead, and stepped back, searching among his papers as he did so.
“I forgot to leave Captain Canterac’s check at his place.... Oh, well....” He shrugged, and went along beside Watson. “I’ll give it to him when I go back. Anyway there’s no out-going mail until day after tomorrow.”
Now they were standing in front of the bungalow belonging to the rich man of the settlement. Just at that moment he came out and stood for a moment leaning over the railing of the balcony, but no sooner had he recognized them than he came rushing down the wooden steps. “They must come in, they must have a glass of something with him,” he insisted.
The rings he wore, his heavy gold watch chain and showy clothes did not conceal the fact that this was the Pirovani who had arrived in Argentina ten years earlier as a common laborer; but they did give everyone to understand that he was one of the richest men to be found between Bahia Blanca and the steep wall of the Andes forming the Chilian frontier. There was not a bank in the region that would not honor his signature. Although barely forty his heavy muscular frame and plump clean-shaven face already showed that softening of tissue that betrays the invasion of fat cells.
Beaming with pleasure at having someone come his way to whom he could display the magnificence of his bungalow, he pressed his invitation upon them.
“Even though I am a widower, and live alone here, I like to have some of the comforts of Buenos Aires. Just got some new furniture, too, I want to show you. Come on in, Moreno, you haven’t seen it all, and Mr. Watson here doesn’t know half what I’ve got to show him!”
The two men followed their enthusiastic host up the wooden outside steps into the dining room, which contained a large number of heavy and showy pieces of furniture. Pirovani exhibited them proudly, slapping them to show the fine quality of the oak, and rolling his eyes toward the ceiling whenever he alluded to the prices he had paid for them. The parlor too, which he insisted on showing, contained an excessive number of chairs and tables among which the visitors had to thread their way; and the bedroom, with its elaborate furnishings, would have been far more suitable for a variety hall actress than for Mr. Pirovani, the contractor. In all the rooms of course, the contrast between the over-elaborate furniture and the rough frame-work of the bungalow was startling.
“A pretty sum, it cost me,” exclaimed the Italian proudly. “What do you think of it, don Ricardo? You’ve seen a lot of fine things in your travels.... How do you like my little place?”