CHAPTER XXXV.

A CAFE QUARREL.

“I suppose this is the Madison Square of Santiago,” remarks Jack Ashley, as he notes approvingly the brilliant spectacle which the plaza affords, now that the tropic night is atoning for the enervating heat of the tropic afternoon. Santiago, like all Cuban cities, wakes up measurably early, bustles about for three hours or so, and then dozes or fans itself until the sun drops into the sea and night comes with scarcely a shadow of twilight.

And then Santiago wakes again with a start, and for a few more hours laughs and chatters, promenades and flirts until about 10 o’clock, when the curtain falls, not to rise again until the sun is well up the morning sky.

The nightly gathering on the plaza has been tersely described as “a scene of shoulders, arms, trains, jewels and cascarilla.”

The women monopolize the plaza and the men the cafe, the latter a simple interior, a mere loafing-place for the Cuban, whose capacities as an idler are the result of many years’ practice in the gentle art of doing nothing.

Into one of the cafés that border the panorama of gayety strolls Ashley. The place is crowded, but over in the farthest corner he sees a table at which only one person is seated. Toward this he threads his way, but when almost there his progress is impeded by a party of four who are taking up more space than the law of equality allows.

“Pardon me,” remarks Jack, as he brushes past the chair of an unamiable-appearing individual in undress military attire. The latter moves reluctantly and growls something which Ashley suspects is not complimentary, and as he drops into a seat he asks the gentleman across the table: “Do you speak English, sir?”

“Occasionally,” is the brief rejoinder.

“Then would you oblige me by translating the remark of the chap whose repose I just disturbed?”

“It’s of no consequence,” replies the other. “An impertinence upon Americans. The feeling against that people is very bitter in Santiago just now. The United States is suspected of encouraging practically as well as morally the present insurrection.”

“Perhaps I had better go over and punch his head,” observes Ashley. “His suspicions might be better grounded.”

“It would be a waste of time and perhaps lead to a general row. He is only a Spanish captain who has invested his title with more importance than would suffice for the entire service. Spanish captains are as plentiful as Kentucky colonels.”

“You speak by the card,” laughs Ashley, as he orders a glass of jerez and a cigar. “Your English, too, is as pure as a New Yorker’s—or perhaps I should say as un-foreign. Pure English is not a drug in the New York market.”

“I have resided in New York, as well as other parts of the United States. But after a short residence on this island a man drifts into the indolence and shiftlessness of the natives and loses much of his identity.”

“He does not lose his Americanism, I hope.”

“No; the same thrill comes over him when he sees the most beautiful of all flags streaming out on the breeze, and with it is increased his sense of the outrageous wrongs which the Cuban has suffered from generation to generation.”

Ashley has been looking his acquaintance over with much interest, and the result of his “sizing up” is as follows:

Age, about Ashley’s own; above the medium height, athletic of build, and straight as the proverbial arrow; general air denoting decision, dash, and a bit of recklessness. His garments are dark and somewhat travel-worn, and on his head, pulled down well over his eyes, he wears a soft hat that borders on the sombrero.

Just now he is scowling at the party of four near by, who are making merry apparently at the expense of the two young men.

“As I said before,” observes Ashley, “if you will kindly translate the remarks of yonder chaps it will afford me considerable satisfaction to call them to order. Ah, if I could only tell them in Spanish what I think of them in English,” he adds, recollecting an old opera-bouffe jest.

Ashley’s acquaintance is evidently making an effort to keep his temper, but his resentment is apparent in the flash of his eyes and the red spot in each cheek.

“By Jove!” suddenly reflects Ashley, “perhaps our military friend understands English. I’ll try him.” Then to the apparent leading spirit of the quartet, who has just delivered himself of a sally that vastly amuses his companions, Ashley leans over and drawls: “Pardon me, senor, am I the subject of your mirth?”

The Spaniard may understand, but he makes no sign. The quartet set down their glasses and stare at the self-possessed young man who has risen and walked to their table and whose mild blue eyes run over the party in calm inquiry. And the young man notes that the time-killers for many tables around have ceased their chatter for the moment and are watching curiously the progress of the colloquy.

“I have reason to suspect,” goes on Ashley, “that you are making a beastly nuisance of yourself, and unless you are anxious for a good American thrashing I would advise you to keep a civil tongue from now on. If you don’t understand that I’ll knock it through your head in short order.”

The reply is a volley of red-hot Castilian, but Ashley is saved the trouble of attempting to comprehend it. For at this moment a long arm reaches by him and the Spanish captain is dealt a slap across the mouth that transforms his teeth for an instant into castanets.

Then there is confusion. The quartet spring to their feet and one of them seizes a bottle. But Ashley grips the uplifted arm with a wrist of steel and remarks in tones that carry conviction: “Easy, my friend, or I’ll throw you through the side of the house.”

The idlers in the cafe crowd about the combatants and the proprietor rushes up and protests against the disorder.

The Spanish captain and Ashley’s friend glare at each other, and the latter, after pronouncing the words “Hotel Royal” with a significance appreciated by his antagonist, slips his arm through Ashley’s and draws him from the cafe.

“Whither?” queries Jack, as they proceed down the street.

“To the Hotel Royal. I am stopping there for the night. And you?”

“Same cheerful hostelry. Is it the worst in Cuba?”

“The worst and the best. They are all off the same piece.”

“Will you come up to my room?” asks he of the black eyes, when the hotel is reached. “We shall doubtless be waited upon presently.”

“By our Spanish friend?”

“By his representative, more likely.”

“But how is he to locate you?” questions Ashley. “No pasteboards were exchanged.”

His companion smiles sardonically. “Capt. Raymon Huerta and I are not strangers,” he says.

Even as he speaks there is a rap at the door and as it is thrown open in strides one of the Spanish quartet.

“Well, Senor Cardena,” says the young man with the black eyes, glancing at the bit of pasteboard in his hand, “what is your pleasure?”

“What, Senor Navarro, you may expect,” replies Cardena, declining stiffly the proffered chair. “Capt. Huerta demands satisfaction for the insult offered to him.”

“Not only offered, but delivered,” mutters Ashley, and he returns in kind Cardena’s impertinent glance. “So my unknown friend’s name is Navarro,” he thinks.

“You may convey to Capt. Huerta my willingness to afford him the desired redress,” says Navarro. “How will sunrise, on the beach below the city, answer?”

“I am authorized to make the necessary arrangements. What you have proposed will be satisfactory. And the weapons?”

“Pistols, I suppose; I am provided with one.”

“Hold on,” puts in Ashley. “I have just the article. Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.” Repairing to his room he extracts from his trunk two superb Smith & Wesson 38-caliber revolvers, and these he submits to Cardena and Navarro. Senor Cardena professes himself to be satisfied with the weapons and, with a perfunctory “Adios,” he withdraws.

When he has gone Navarro tosses his arms impatiently and murmurs: “What a fool I am.”

“All men are or have been at some period,” Ashley assures him. “But what gives rise to your present self-accusation?”

“The thought that I permitted my temper to play the mischief with my judgment,” is the gloomy reply. “A man has the right to risk his own life, but not the life, or what is dearer than life, of those whose interests he is intrusted with.”

“See here,” Ashley gently protests, “if there is any fighting to be done why not let me have the job? I began the row—”

“And I finished it. No, my friend, this affair must go on to the bitter end. Although, as you rightly suspected, you were the ostensible object of the remarks of the party at the cafe, they were in reality directed toward me. It was inevitable that Capt. Huerta and I should cross, though I might have to-night avoided a meeting which would better be left to the future. May I request you to second me in the meeting?”

“Assuredly, Senor Navarro. That is your name, I judge?”

“Yes; Emilio Navarro—quite Spanish, you see,” with a peculiar smile. “And your name?”

“Jack Ashley; residence, New York; occupation, newspaper man; paper, the Hemisphere; ever heard of it?”

“The newspaper is not a stranger to me. Pardon me a few minutes,” says Navarro, and he occupies himself in writing a somewhat lengthy letter, which he seals, without addressing, and hands to Ashley.

“Ashley, you are a man of honor,” he says, laying one hand upon the newspaper man’s shoulder. “Promise me that if anything happens to me to-morrow you will deliver that letter to a name I will whisper to you.”

“I shall do so with profound regret, sir. The name?”

“Don Manuel de Quesada. He resides in the Pueblo de Olivet, on the edge of Santos, four miles west of Santiago.”

Ashley places the letter in his pocket. “I will not fail you, if the occasion for my services should arise. But unless Huerta is more familiar with the American revolver than I believe him to be, I shall have the happiness of returning this document to you after you have filled him full of leaden satisfaction. How are you on the shoot, anyway?”

Navarro smiles grimly. “I have hit a playing card at fifty yards,” he says.

“Oh, well; that’s close enough marksmanship. I am beginning to feel sorry for Huerta.”

“Save your sympathy. I shall not kill him. And now, friend Ashley, I believe I’ll go to bed. I have been riding all day and I am as tired as a dog. At daylight we start.”

“At daylight it is. It is not too late to accept my offer to exchange places with you. I can’t hit a playing card at fifty yards, but at least I am alone in the world, and, barring a few excellent friends, would not be especially missed. It is as much my quarrel as yours, you know.”

“My dear Ashley,” says Navarro, with much emotion, “I am deeply sensible of the goodness of heart that prompts your offer, but, I repeat, this affair must proceed as it has begun.”

“Well, good-night to you, then,” says Ashley, and he goes off to bed, wondering what manner of man is he who speaks of a thrill at the sight of the most beautiful of all flags streaming out upon the breeze, and yet claims the distinctly Spanish name of Emilio Navarro.