On the evening of one pay-day, Dick took a short cut through the
half-breed quarter of Santa Brigida. As not infrequently happens in old
Spanish cities, this unsavory neighborhood surrounded the cathedral and
corresponded in character with the localities known in western America as
"across the track." Indeed, a Castilian proverb bluntly plays upon the
juxtaposition of vice and bells.
Ancient houses rose above the dark and narrow street. Flakes of plaster
had fallen from their blank walls, the archways that pierced them were
foul and strewn with refuse, and a sour smell of decay and garbage
tainted the stagnant air. Here and there a grossly fat, slatternly woman
leaned upon the rails of an outside balcony; negroes, Chinamen, and
half-breeds passed along the broken pavements; and the dirty,
open-fronted wine-shops, where swarms of flies hovered about the tables,
were filled with loungers of different shades of color.
By and by Dick noticed a man in clean white duck on the opposite side of
the street. He was a short distance in front, but his carriage and the
fit of his clothes indicated that he was a white man and probably an
American, and Dick slackened his pace. He imagined that the other would
sooner not be found in that neighborhood if he happened to be an
acquaintance. The fellow, however, presently crossed the street, and when
he stopped and looked about, Dick, meeting him face to face, saw with
some surprise that it was Kemp, the fireman, who had shown him an
opportunity of escaping from the steamer that took them South.
Kemp had turned out a steady, sober man, and Dick, who had got him
promoted, wondered what he was doing there, though he reflected that his
own presence in the disreputable locality was liable to be misunderstood.
Kemp, however, looked at him with a twinkle.
"I guess you're making for the harbor, Mr. Brandon?"
Dick said he was, and Kemp studied the surrounding houses.
"Well," he resumed, "I'm certainly up against it now. I don't know much
Spanish, and these fool dagos can't talk American, while they're packed
so tight in their blamed tenements that it's curious they don't fall out
of the windows. It's a tough proposition to locate a man here."
"Then you're looking for somebody?"
"Yes. I've tracked Payne to this calle, but I guess there's some
trailing down to be done yet."
"Ah!" said Dick; for Payne was the dismissed storekeeper. "Why do you
want him?"
"I met him a while back and he'd struck bad luck, hurt his arm, for one
thing. He'd been working among the breeds on the mole and living in their
tenements, and couldn't strike another job. I reckoned he might want a
few dollars, and I don't spend all my pay."
Dick nodded, because he understood the unfortunate position of the white
man who loses caste in a tropical country. An Englishman or American may
engage in manual labor where skill is required and the pay is high, but
he must live up to the standards of his countrymen. If forced to work
with natives and adopt their mode of life, he risks being distrusted and
avoided by men of his color. Remembering that Payne had interfered when
he was stabbed, Dick had made some inquiries about him, but getting no
information decided that he had left the town.