CHAPTER XXXIV.

A SPANISH BILL OF FARE.

“I want some soft-boiled eggs, but I don’t suppose you know a soft-boiled egg from a gas stove, eh?”

The waiter at the hotel Royal, in Santiago, regards Jack Ashley with an expression as blank as a brick wall.

“Don’t get the idea, I see,” remarks Ashley. “Well, let me think. ‘Huevos’ means eggs, I know that much, but what the deuce is soft-boiled? I believe ‘blondo’ is soft, and soft eggs might express the idea. ‘Blondo huevos,’” he tells the waiter, and the latter, though apparently puzzled, disappears.

For the next ten minutes Jack is occupied in receiving and sending back orders of eggs—eggs cooked in every conceivable style except soft-boiled. Finally in despair he selects a dish nearest to his wants, and gets along all right until he decides to have some chicken. An examination of the bill of fare fails to discover anything that looks like chicken, and the case appears hopeless.

“If I only had my phrase book with me I might do some business,” he reflects. “As it is, I don’t see any way out of it except to draw a picture of a chicken. Hold on; ‘gallina’ means hen, unless I have forgotten my studies, and if there is anything consistent in the linguistic diminutives of the Spanish language, ‘gallinoso’ must be the equivalent for chicken.” So he orders “gallinoso” with a complacence born of a problem happily solved.

The waiter simply stares and waits patiently.

“‘Gallinoso’ doesn’t go, then.” Ashley looks the bill of fare over again. The most attractive item is “salchichas con aroz,” but he does not dare risk that. Finally a happy thought occurs to him.

“Todos!” he orders. “Todos! Todos!” The waiter, with a grin of intelligence, hurries away and Ashley heaves a sigh of relief. “Great word, ‘todos,’” he soliloquizes. “Most significant word in the language.”

It is effective, at least, for the waiter arrives with a little of everything that the kitchen affords and Ashley manages to make out a meal.

Meanwhile he has noticed that his efforts at Spanish have vastly entertained a gentleman who sits at the table beyond and facing him. Particularly broad was his smile when the order for “gallinoso” was given. As Jack leisurely sorts out the most appetizing-looking of the array of greasy viands, he remarks: “If you were as hungry as I, senor, my attempts to secure a breakfast might strike you as being more tragic than humorous.”

“I meant no offense,” replies the senor. “You would yourself smile if you knew what ‘gallinoso’ is.”

“So? What may it be, an octopus or a mule?”

“Almost as bad as either. It is a turkey buzzard.”

“Ah, yes; they were probably just out of turkey buzzards. Oh, well, I’ll get the hang of the language before I leave Cuba.”

“Undoubtedly. It is easy of acquisition. You have, I assume, provided yourself with a phrase-book.”

“A magnificent affair. It contains every possible phrase except the ones I have occasion to use.”

The two finish their repast about the same time, and as they stroll out upon the veranda to enjoy the long, strong cigar that inevitably follows a Cuban breakfast the senor remarks:

“You are an American, I judge.”

“New York,” is the terse response.

“Have you been in Cuba long?”

“About two hours.”

“Indeed? I was not aware that any steamers arrived to-day.”

“Because of the blockade, eh? But I dropped in on the cruiser America.”

“You are of the service?”

“No; I am just a plain American citizen.”

“Well, senor, this is hardly a desirable time for Americans or others to visit Cuba.”

“An eminently proper time for one in my line of business,” replies Ashley. “I am a newspaper correspondent.”

The senor looks the young man over critically. “Your profession is not regarded with especial favor at present by the Spanish Government,” he says.

“I understand so,” drawls Ashley. “Newspaper men have an unpleasant habit of stating facts, something the government is not particularly anxious to have abroad.”

A flush of annoyance mounts the senor’s face, and on the left cheek Ashley for the first time notices a small, crescent-shaped scar.

“Aha!” he thinks. “This gentleman rather answers my friend Barker’s description of the party who left New York with the fair Mrs. Harding.”

“The Government has no desire to conceal facts,” asserts the senor, with some warmth, “but it naturally seeks to prevent the dissemination of false, exaggerated or malicious reports. What journal do you represent, senor?”

Ashley tenders his card. The senor glances at it and smiles half-derisively. “The Hemisphere! I had that very journal in mind,” he says.

“My paper must be excused from feeling flattered, then.”

“It was only a week or so ago,” continues the senor, “that I read in your paper a sensational interview with a visionary enthusiast, which was a little more exaggerated and absurd than the average.”

“That was before you left New York, probably,” ventures Ashley, and the senor shoots a glance at him from a pair of keen black eyes. “You refer to the interview with Don Manada,” goes on Ashley. “I had the pleasure of placing the distinguished Cuban’s views before the public.”

“I am not surprised,” comments the senor, with quiet sarcasm.

“In other words you consider me a man who would deliberately put forth false, exaggerated or malicious reports.”

“I did not say so, senor. I presume you are typical of your profession.”

“And I believe I am. Our journal, like every other decent paper, prints the news. If it were to investigate every dispatch that comes to it day by day there would be precious little information for the reader who turns to it each morning. If an injustice is occasionally done, the paper is ever willing to rectify its error and make all proper amends. You must naturally expect the American newspapers to favor the dispatches received from insurgent sources.”

“Why, pray?”

“For the reason that little dependence can be placed upon the statements of the opposition. In fact,” smiles Ashley, “the situation approximates somewhat the condition intimated in a joke now going the rounds of the press. A Spanish captain in surrendering to superior numbers or prowess, craves one boon at the hands of his conqueror. ‘What is it?’ asks the latter. ‘Please announce the fact,’ requests the Spanish captain, ‘that I have won an overwhelming victory.’”

The senor fails to see anything amusing in the jest. “Do you intend to remain at Santiago?” he asks.

“For the present. The fighting appears to be principally at this end of the island. Later I may push on to Havana.”

“There has been more than one instance of expulsion of foreign correspondents, senor.”

“So I am told. Well, I shall do my duty, as well as I know how. I naturally sympathize with the Cubans, but I shall not permit my sympathies to lead me to color any reports of the war’s progress. If a battle occurs to-morrow and the government forces are victorious, the simple facts in the case will be forwarded, without further comment than is required to make the story interesting. And if the Cubans win, the same impartiality will characterize my dispatch. I expect the same fair play that I extend. Is that not reasonable?”

“Well, at any rate, I like your frankness,” says the senor, with something approaching good humor. “I also like America and admire its people. Do your duty as you understand it, Senor Ashley, and should your zeal as a correspondent lead you into difficulty perhaps I may be of service to you.”

“Thank you,” acknowledges Jack. “But with my present limited means of identifying you, I should be more likely to be garroted or shot before I could send you word.”

The senor smiles. “I am Gen. Murillo,” he says. “Adios, Senor Ashley.” And with a courtly bow the Spanish gentleman takes himself off.

“So,” muses Ashley, looking after the retreating figure. “Gen. Juan Murillo, the chief of staff attached to the captain-general, is the patron of the beautiful Harding. I remember the Hemisphere noted his presence in New York. My lady’s services must be booked for something out of the ordinary spy business. Murillo is in Santiago; so probably is she, but if this city is her base of operations she is likely to sail pretty close to the wind.

“Now, where on earth is Barker?” wonders Ashley. “Probably at the other end of the island, while the objects of his quest are at this end. The Semiramis rests serenely on the bosom of the bay, and Miss Hathaway and Messrs. Felton and Van Zandt are either aboard of her or are somewhere about the city. I believe I’ll go out to the yacht and settle the question in my mind.”

And he does. He is rowed out over the blazing sea by a sun-cured barquero and climbs to the deck of the Semiramis.

“Mr. Van Zandt?” repeats Capt. Beals, in response to Ashley’s inquiry. “Left yesterday, sir: Where? Havana, I believe the destination was.”

“And his passengers?” ventures Ashley. “I am a friend of theirs,” he explains to Mr. Beals.

“His passengers went with him,” the latter tells him.

Ashley is about to return to shore when he hears an exclamation and he sees coming toward him Don Rafael Manada, the distinguished member of the Cuban revolutionary society.

“Dios mio! Senor Ashley, I am delighted to see you,” exclaims the volatile Manada, embracing him warmly. “What brings you here?”

“Business, my dear Don Manada, I am at present officiating as a war correspondent. Will you not come ashore and take dinner with me?”

“A thousand thanks, Senor Ashley; but,” with a smile intended to be significant, “I believe it would be wise for me to remain here for the present.”

“By the way,” says Ashley, “you recollect that interview at the Fifth Avenue hotel a week or so ago?” Manada nods smilingly. “Well, I met a gentleman to-day who spoke rather slightingly of the views which you therein expressed. Perhaps you know him. Gen. Murillo.”

“Murillo!” cries the Cuban. “Ha! Is he in Santiago?”

“He was half an hour ago.”

“Was he alone? That is, was he not accompanied—”

“By the fair Mrs. Harding?” supplies Ashley.

Manada’s face flushes. “Ah, you know her?” he says.

“Slightly,” returns Jack. “No; Mrs. Harding was not with the general, though she may be in the neighborhood. They left New York together. Now, Don Manada, having imparted some information to you, I should esteem it a great favor if you would reciprocate.” Ashley glances about and notices that they are out of hearing. “I will not ask you why you happen to be on the Semiramis, as I have no disposition to pry into your affairs, but I should like to know how Mr. Felton and Miss Hathaway came to be aboard of the yacht?”

Manada shrugs his shoulders. “I have not an idea,” he says. “An hour before the Semiramis sailed they were driven to the pier in company with the owner of the yacht. Where they came from I cannot say.”

“Did they appear to be well acquainted with one another?”

“Very nearly strangers, I should say. Senor Felton kept his stateroom during nearly all the voyage and seemed to avoid Senor Van Zandt.”

Ashley is now getting some information of decided interest. “And Miss Hathaway? Did she appear to share the distrust or dislike?”

“Quite the contrary. They were together about all the time.”

“Now, Don Manada, there is one query I should like to put to you.”

“Come,” smiles Manada, “I can guess what your question is to be.”

“I will save you the trouble and ask it. As a man of years and experience, of keen discernment and calm conclusions, what should you say were the precise relations existing between Phillip Van Zandt and Louise Hathaway?”

Manada appears to reflect deeply. Then he says, with a gravity belied by the twinkle in his eyes: “Serious, my dear Senor Ashley; very serious.”

“Thank you,” responds Ashley. “Well, I believe I’ll go ashore and get better acquainted with the natives. I hope to see you again, Don Manada.”

“I shall probably be here until the yacht leaves, senor. Adios.”

As Ashley is borne shoreward he digests the information extracted from his Cuban friend.

“So far as Miss Hathaway’s tender regard is concerned, I appear to be a rank outsider,” he soliloquizes. “But I have the consolation of knowing that I did not permit myself to fall in love with her. Rather a melancholy consolation, but philosophy was invented for just such cases as this.

“And Van Zandt. Well, Barker can doubt as much as he pleases, but I will stake my reputation as a soothsayer that Van Zandt and Ernest Stanley are one and the same man. And if Phillip Van Zandt is not a Nemesis, stalking on the trail of his prospective victim or victims, then I am indeed a prophet unworthy of honor in ‘mine ain countree’ or in the world at large.”