CHAPTER II

ON THE STREETS OF BUENOS AIRES

In my daily rounds as “errand boy” I soon discovered that the _Porteño_ is not a particularly pleasant man with whom to do business. To begin with, he is overwhelmed with a sense of his own importance, of that of his city as the greatest, or at least soon to be greatest, city on the footstool, and seems constantly burdened with the dread of not succeeding in impressing those importances upon all visitors. There is as great an air of concentrated self-sufficiency in Buenos Aires as in New York, a similar self-complacency, the same disdainfulness of anything from the insignificant bit of backwoods outside the city limits, a frank attitude of disbelief in the possibility of ever learning anything from those uncouth persons who have the misfortune not to be _Porteños_, and with it all a provincialism scarcely to be equaled off the Island of Manhattan. But the _Porteño_ has less reason to boast of efficiency in his business methods than has his prototype of the North. From the American point of view he is decidedly slow. The telephone, for instance, has never been developed into a real aid to business in Buenos Aires. The service is incredibly deficient, not simply sometimes imperfect, but deficient in the sense which that word has to those who have lived and attempted to telephone in Paris. At the time of my erranding there were seven thousand telephone subscribers in Buenos Aires—with a population rapidly approaching two million; and it was so impossible to be added to the list that persons surrendering their instrument had only to mention that fact in the “Want” columns of a newspaper to sell at a price equal to the bonus paid for an opera box the privilege of being the next to rent it. Yet once the telephone is in, one’s troubles have only begun. Most _Porteño_ business men prefer to do without one and go in person to see their professional adversaries. In fact the atrociousness of the telephone service was the chief raison d’être of my position in the consulate.

Having squirmed and shouldered one’s way through the narrow human streams of the business district to the door of the building sought, there begins the serious problem of reaching the desired individual. The elevator service, in the few cases where there is one, is on a par with the telephone. Nor is it reassuring to the timid, for on the ground-floor cage there is almost certain to be a conspicuous sign to the effect that, “As there exists a stairway, persons riding in the elevator do so at their own peril.” Buenos Aires has not quite shaken off the suspicion of a diabolical nature in all such new-fangled contraptions. A man was killed by an elevator in an office building during my days in the capital; when I chanced to pass the place nearly two weeks later, the entire elevator-shaft had been gutted by municipal order and three policemen were still stationed at the foot of it, apparently to prevent anyone from climbing the shaft instead of using the stairway.

Arrived at the proper floor, you find yourself face to face with the greatest difficulty of all. From that moment you must wage pitched battle, for the inevitable door-keepers are insolent beyond measure, though sometimes with a veneer of Latin-American-style courtesy, and so numerous that to pass them is like running a gantlet. To get as far as the subsecretary’s subsecretary is often a strenuous day’s work. It makes no difference how important your errand may be. These stupid Cerebuses see no distinction whatever between the official spokesman of the august _Consul General de los Estados Unidos de Norte América_ and a book agent. Nor will foresight help you. For the great man inside is invariably behind his schedule, scores of other applicants are sure to be lined up in the anteroom, and though you have an appointment with him for two, you are more likely than not to be still waiting at four. This waiting in the anteroom is so customary in the Argentine that _antesalar_ has become an accepted verb of the _idioma nacional_. Public officials, from ministers to the lowest class of secretary, have mobs before their doors during all their office hours, but instead of increasing the latter until they cover the work to be done, or hurrying things up in order to receive all applicants, they come late, fritter away much of their time in non-essentials, and leave early, so that most of the crowd has the pleasure of coming again the next day, and the next. Doctors and dentists are particularly remiss in this form of inefficiency. They, by the way, charge an admission fee, that must be paid to the door-keeper before the patient can get in, and which has no bearing on the regular charges “for professional services.”

The reason for this stagnation in the anteroom becomes apparent when you at last step across the magic threshold. The American business man presses a button as soon as he has heard you, and the thing is done at once; the _argentino_ hems and haws, spends considerable time on drawing-room courtesies and formalities, murmurs, “Ah-er-why-sí, señor-er, come around to-morrow at three,” though it would be quite as easy to make his decision at once. Most _Porteño_ business men with whom I came in contact seemed to keep their minds on ice, or in a safety vault somewhere, and to require time to go and consult them—for no one who knows the Latin-American can even suspect that they wished to talk the matter over with their wives. The saddest part of the whole story is that when you come around mañana at three, the man either will not be there or will be conferring with those who have appointments from twelve to one, and will not have given your question an instant’s thought since his door closed behind you.

There is a certain English and German influence in “B. A.” business houses, and a corresponding native influence on the rather numerous English and German business men in the city which makes them almost as prone to procrastination as the _Porteño_. Five o’clock tea is served in all offices, including congress and newspaper rooms. Of late years this is often really tea, rather than _mate_, though black coffee and liqueurs are still found on most portable sideboards. A British air of deliberation pervades the commercial caste, though the pressure of competition and high cost of living is gradually having its effect, both in the increased pace of business and the lengthening of office hours, which, if they begin late and are broken by tea-time, often last until seven or even eight in the evening. “B. A.” still retains, however, a few of those features which visiting Americans below the Rio Grande are wont in their exasperation to dub “Spig.” There is the post-office, for instance. It is as unsafe to assume common sense on the part of Buenos Aires postal officials as of those in the most backward parts of South America. Red tape, indifference, languor, and stupidity flourish almost as vigorously in the _correo principal_ in the Casa Rosada as at the crest of the Andes. You will probably find your letters filed under the name “Esquire,” if your correspondents affect that medieval title; if you wish to buy a stamp, the customary way is to go to one of the tobacco-shops obliged to keep them, and buy it at a premium. Those who insist on getting their stamps at the legal price must travel long distances to the post office and shove and jostle their way through a throng of Italians bent on sending home a part of their wages, to reach at last a wholly inadequate hole in the wall behind which the female clerks are deeply engrossed in gossip.

There is a reminder of some of our own overambitious towns in the _argentino’s_ eagerness to boost population, as if there were some virtue in mere figures, even though those be false. The national census was taken during my sojourn in the republic—all in a single day by the way, which was declared a holiday—and the method of computing the population was not one to cause it to shrink. Long beforehand walls and windows were covered with so many placards resembling those of a vaudeville performance that the cynical observer might easily have been justified in supposing that the printers had a special influence with the government. On the day set not only was every foreigner included, even though he happened only to be spending a few hours in crossing the country, but orders were issued to count, through the consuls, all _argentinos_ living abroad and all persons of whatever nationality at the moment under the Argentine flag, whether on the high seas or on steamers far up the Paraná and Uruguay rivers quite outside the national jurisdiction. I was counted at my hotel, filling in a blank under the eye of the Italian proprietor, though I had only the day before returned from a foreign country and was on the point of leaving for another. The enumerators received ten _centavos_ for each person enumerated, which naturally did not tend toward a decrease of population, that sum being paid by the government—though it turned out later that in many backwoods districts it had also been collected from the enumerated. Placards were then posted ordering any person within the republic who had not been counted on the date set to come to town and present himself before the Census Commission. These intensive methods resulted eventually in the announcement that 1,490,675 persons were living in Buenos Aires on the day in question.

If there chanced to be no “outside work” for the moment to keep me scurrying through the avalanche of taxicabs, or no “office boy” duties about the consulate, there was always plenty of recreation to be found in watching the assorted humanity that filed in and out of the outer office. Now a penniless sailor would drift in, to address the work-swamped vice consul in such words as, “General, I ayn’t goin’ t’ tell you no stories, ’cause you’re a bright man an’ you’d ketch me up at it an’ make a fool out o’ me. Only, I took just that one drink, general, just that one drink, an’ they shanghaied me an’ ’ere I am an’ I ’as a family in the States, general, s’welp me Gawd, general, an’ what am I goin’ t’ do ...” and so on, until to my multitudinous duties was added that of bouncer. Or perhaps a clean, neatly dressed young American, perpetual outdoors in his face, would step up with, “I come from Texas, that’s where my paw an’ maw lives, an’ I come down here to raise hawgs an’ I thought I’d come in an’ tell you I was in the country an’ now where can I get the best land to raise hawgs on an’ ...” another task for the overworked “office boy.” If it was one of those rare days when this continual procession of human quandaries was broken, I had only to reach at random into the files to pull out a written one:

Buenos Aires, April 25, To the Consol of the U. S. A.

HON. SIR:

I am reading now the news of the war (it was the time of our sending marines to Vera Cruz) and the call at the arms to volunteers. If you remember, about 7 or 8 month ago, I have writen to you from Rosario, offering my blood for your Republica. Not answer have I received about. Now if you like to take in consideration this letter, I wish to start for the war and to be incorporated in the volunteer’s corps. This is not a strange offering. I am Italiaman and I cannot to forget the time passed in the U. S. A. and the generous heart of the Americaman when my country was troubled by the sismic movements.

I live in New York six year, left the North America three year before, and am desiring now to see and live in that blessed country. Here has the hungry, and indeed to die starved in the streets. I wish better to die for the North American states. I love your land more than my country and severals of the Italiamen living in the States, believe me, Sir, will be incorporated for the war. I would to be at present in New York, not here: I well know that the international respects forbidden to answer me about, but I have not money in this poor country, and for that I can’t to start at my expenses. If you like to give me a passage, I am ready to start rightaway, and not body shall know my resolution.

Hoping in your favorable answer, I am glad to be,

Yours respectfully, MIKE ALBANESE.

Nor does Buenos Aires take a back seat to New York in the amusement the stroller may find in its streets. There was the incident of Easter Sunday, for instance. I went to church, but there was no special music, only a cluster of priests in barbarically resplendent robes going through some sort of silent service, so I drifted out again. There was not even the parade of new spring hats to which to look forward, for spring was still far off in Buenos Aires. In fact, the oppressive heat of early March in which I had arrived had only begun to give way to a refreshing coolness. The early autumn skies were brilliant, leaves had scarcely begun to turn color. I bought a copy of _La Prensa_, tucked it under an arm, and went strolling lazily up Rivadavia beyond Calle Callao, the Forty-Second street of “B. A.,” flanking the gleaming new congress building. Mounted policemen in rich uniforms, with horsetail helmets and the white gloves of holidays, here and there decorated the landscape. For some time I sauntered dreamily on at random, a trifle bored by the monotony of life, for I had already been more than a month in Buenos Aires and had tasted most of the excitement it has to offer.

I was half aware of crossing the broad Plaza Once de Setembro, still covered with earth from the digging of the new subway. Finally, up in the 2700 block, a man standing on a corner asked me if I could tell him where Dr. Martinez lived. I replied that I was a stranger in those parts. So was he. That was fairly evident to the naked eye, for he was decidedly countrified in appearance and actions, though he was clean and well dressed. He had just come up from Bahía Blanca, he said, and when he got off the train in the station, he had met one of those men with a _huascar_, a rope, over one shoulder and a number on his cap—a _changador_, or porter, I explained—who asked him if he wanted his baggage carried. He did, and gave the man his _maleta_ and also the slip of paper with the address of Dr. Martinez on it. Then the _changador_ said it was customary to pay in advance, and as he had no change he gave him a ten-peso bill and told him to bring back the small money.

The poor fellow was so evidently a simple, good-hearted countryman who had never been in a large city before that I could not but admire, as well as pity, his unsuspecting nature. Of course the _changador_ had disappeared with the valise, the ten pesos, _and_ the address; and as the _campesino_ did not even know the doctor’s first name, things looked rather dark for him, for Martinez rivals Smith in directories and telephone books. Still, it was no concern of mine, so after giving him my sympathy and advising him to report the matter to the police, just for form’s sake, I turned to go on.

Just then another man passed us at a brisk pace and the poor countryman appealed to him for advice. The newcomer was quite evidently a _Porteño_, a man under thirty, good-looking, with the frank and open countenance one recognizes at once as belonging to an honest man. His appearance was that of a clerk or small merchant. Knowing the countryman was in good hands, I turned away again.

But he called me back, apparently feeling more secure with me nearby. Then he told the newcomer of his hard luck. Naturally the latter was as sorry as I was. He expressed his sympathy and started on, but the countryman begged not to be abandoned in his trouble. The newcomer yielded good-naturedly to the whim of the yokel and we fell into conversation.

“You are English?” remarked the townsman, casually, but before I could answer, the countryman said with an air of finality, “No, he is German,” and as it was easier to let it go at that than to bother to correct him, I nodded. We strolled along for a block, puzzling over the sad predicament of the countryman. At length the _Porteño_ asked pardon for butting into any man’s private affairs, but, “Did this changador get away with any of your money in the grip, too?”

“Ah, no; there I am lucky!” cried the estanciero. “Just before the train got into the station I opened the _maleta_ and took out this roll of billetes; it is seven thousand pesos”—in the utmost innocence the fellow drew out the roll, large as a man’s forearm, a hundred-peso bill in plain sight on top. I was about to protest when the other man did so, crying:

“But, my dear sir! Do you know me? Or do you know this gentleman? Then don’t you know better than to flash seven thousand pesos around in the public streets? Why, if we were not respectable men we might tell you we knew where this Dr. Martinez lives and then lead you into any old corner and give you a _puñalado_ and....”

“Oh, I can tell you are honest men,” replied the countryman, with a childlike smile, at which the other turned to me with:

“You see these country people live so simply and honestly at home they never dream of the dangers of the cities.”

“Yes,” I replied. Then to the countryman, “But one mustn’t always judge people by their faces,” for it was evidently up to me to say something of a harsh nature to the simple rustic.

“Exactly,” said the _Porteño_; “we can see a man’s face but not his heart.”

Still the countryman seemed to prefer to trust to his own judgment of physiognomy and implored us to help him find this Dr. Martinez, saying that if it was a matter of giving us ten or twenty pesos each for our trouble he would be glad to do so. The _Porteño_ forestalled my protest by saying we were not that sort of men but that we would be glad to give him any assistance possible, out of charity. So we set out along a side street, telling the countryman to walk ahead.

“What do you think of that poor fellow?” said the _Porteño_; “and what if he had fallen in with some dishonest shyster instead of us? Say, you know I think the man is ill and....”

“Oh, _señor_,” he called to him, “you won’t think I am prying into your private affairs, but is it some medical matter you want to see this Dr. Martinez about? Because if it is, you know there are so many fakes posing as doctors here in the city....”

“No, no; it is not for a medical matter at all,” returned the countryman; “it is merely a family affair,” and he went on again. But before long he turned back and to my astonishment there were tears visible on his cheeks.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “it is true I do not know you, but I have seen and talked with you and I am sure you are honest men, not the kind who would outwit a poor countryman who knows nothing of the city and its ways. So I am going to tell you just how things stand so you can advise me what to do.

“My father and I own a big estancia down near Bahía Blanca. We are very well-to-do—you will excuse my mentioning that—though we do not know much of cities and their ways. Some time ago a man living on our estancia died. He was thought to be a beggar, but when we came to disinfect his hut what was our surprise to find inside his old mattress seven thousand pesos in these little round gringo gold pieces....”

“Ah, he means English sovereigns,” put in the _Porteño_.

“Father was going to turn this over to the authorities,” the countryman went on, “but our lawyer laughed at the idea, as the fellow had no heirs and the authorities would only stick it into their own pockets. And as the man had lived and died on our estancia, surely no one was more entitled to the money than father. So he put it away in his strong boxes—though, to be sure, it was a small amount to us and we never needed it. Well, a few weeks ago my poor papá”—here he wiped away a tear—“was riding along when his horse ran into a _cerco de alambre de púas_. But perhaps you city gentlemen do not know what a _cerco de alambre de púas_ is?”

“Oh, yes,” we both cried, and the _Porteño_ added, “it is that wire with sharp points on it that you use out in the country to keep the cattle or horses in a field.”

“Well, my poor father rode into one of those fences and his face was so cut and torn that it has all turned black on that side, and the doctor came and told us it was scurvy or cancer or some of those awful diseases with a long name, and that poor papá would never get well.”

When he had blown his nose the campesino went on, and one could not help pitying the poor chap, trying to hide his grief, for the people of South America certainly have much family affection, especially those from the country:

“The doctor told us to call the priest, so I went and got Father Acosta, our old family padre, who baptized me, and when he confessed father, he found out about the seven thousand pesos. Well, he said at once that father could not go to heaven with that on his conscience. So he told me to take the money and come to Buenos Aires at once—for of course there is no hope now of finding any of the beggar’s heirs—to see this Dr. Martinez and, giving him two thousand pesos for his poor patients, as a sort of commission, to have him take the other five thousand and send half of it to some church to say masses for the repose of that poor aviator who was killed the other day, and the other half to some good hospital, to be used for the poor and those with bad hands and feet....”

“Ah, he means cripples,” put in the _Porteño_; “that’s what we call that kind of poor people here in the city,” smiling upon our simple companion. Naturally we two had looked at each other frequently during this tale, for it scarcely seemed possible that even a _campesino_ from the utmost pampa could be so unsophisticated. Now, was it a question of the priest and this Dr. Martinez being confederates, or was the priest as simple as the other yokels?

“If you don’t mind another personal question,” said the _Porteño_, “do you know this Dr. Martinez?”

“Ah, no, but he has his name in the paper, in _La Prensa_.”

“My dear señor!” gasped the townsman. “Why, don’t you know that either I, who am no doctor, or this gentleman, whom I think I am right in saying is none either, can pay a newspaper sixty or eighty centavos to put in an announcement that we are doctors, or anything else? Why, my poor compatriot, a newspaper is merely a beast of burden that carries anything you put upon it.”

“But,” gasped the countryman, “don’t the editors know people before they put in their notices?”

“Poor simpleton,” murmured the _Porteño_. “Now, I must be getting on, for I have friends coming to see me, but I’ll tell you what I should do in your case. I should go to some of the largest and most respectable commercial houses here in the city and turn this matter over to them, taking their receipt and....”

“Ah, señores,” cried the countryman, almost in tears, “this is purely a matter between my father and his conscience. I would not have it become public under any circumstances; and besides, my poor father is so sick that I must take the evening train back to Bahía Blanca at all odds. And—excuse me, gentlemen, for mentioning it, but I have an infirmity—and where can I go and sit down for a few minutes? Here on the sidewalk?”

“Válgame Diós, no!” cried the _Porteño_, catching him by a sleeve, “not in the street, or you will have a crowd gathered around you. I’ll tell you what you can do. Go down that way a block and you’ll find a saloon. Go in and buy a drink of something and ask them where you can sit down to drink it.”

The countryman left us, and the _Porteño_ took advantage of the opportunity to talk things over with me.

“It is evident that the simple fellow is in great danger of being done by this Dr. Martinez, or somebody else, for how do we know he will not take and keep the whole seven thousand? Now I am an honest man, and I believe you are, too; are you not? Then it is our duty to take care that this money gets where it belongs. You surely must know some German church here in town where they can say masses for that poor aviator. We can go and give the priest twenty-five hundred; and then there are plenty of good hospitals, the German, the English, and so forth, where they will accept and use for the poor the other twenty-five hundred. And then we will not only have seen that the money goes where it was intended, but there will be a _linda_, a pretty little commission of two thousand pesos to divide between us. Can I depend on you to help me save this poor fellow and his money?”

I was, of course, considerably surprised at such a proposition from a man apparently so straightforward, and for the first time felt it my duty to stay in the case until I had seen the money properly disposed of; the equivalent of three thousand dollars was no sum to see scattered among sharpers. So I nodded, and when the countryman came back, the _Porteño_ explained to him:

“Now, my friend, you do not know this Dr. Martinez. How do we know he will not take the money and spend it on himself, on dissipation, in short, to talk plainly between men, on _francesas_?”

“_Francesas_?” cried the countryman, with a puzzled air.

“Yes, on bad women, on those who sell their love,” explained the _Porteño_; “we call them _francesas_ here in the city because so many of them come from France.”

“Ah, yes, I have heard there are such women in the cities, poor things,” said the farmer. “Also, it is only too true that this doctor may not be honest. But tell me, gentlemen, what am I to do? My poor papá dying down there in Bahía Blanca and——” again the poor fellow was weeping and it was lucky we were on a small side street behind the Once station or we should soon have had a crowd about us.

“Now, you do know us,” went on the _Porteño_, “even if only for a short time, and I propose that you turn this money over to us, let us place the five thousand in churches and hospitals we know of, and then divide the two thousand between us as our commission for our trouble, which we would surely be as much entitled to as Dr. Martinez, whom no one knows.”

To my astonishment the simple countryman jumped at the idea, either because he was too unsophisticated to suspect anyone, or too anxious to get back to his sick father to give any thought to the possibilities of fraud.

“Only, it is a commission of two thousand _between_ you,” he specified, “not for each.”

“Surely, surely, we know that,” answered the _Porteño_.

We continued our stroll down the back street. The countryman, quite evidently relieved to have the matter off his mind, reached for the seven thousand pesos. Then an idea seemed to strike him, as if all our talk about the dangers of the city had at last awakened a bit of suspicion in his breast. He left the roll in his pocket and said smilingly ingenuously:

“But, señores—you will excuse my suggesting such a thing—but before I turn this seven thousand over to you—and I shall place it in the hands of _this_ gentleman” (indicating me) “since I met him first, and you will give me a paper with your names saying you will use the money as my poor father desires—but just so I can say to him when I get back that I turned the commission over to two honest gentlemen, who will carry it out, I—you will excuse me, gentlemen, I am sure, if I speak frankly—I just want you to show me in some way that you are not indigent persons. In short—you will pardon me, señores—but just so my poor father can die in peace”—here he wiped another large tear from his wind-and-sun-burned cheek—“I wish to be able to tell him that you are persons of enough wealth so that you will not need to spend this money on yourselves, just some little proof, gentlemen.”

“Surely, most just and wise,” cried the _Porteño_, “and I am certainly not the man to be unwilling to show you that I am a respectable person. Of course I am not carrying about with me any such large sum as _you_ have, but if it is a matter of a thousand or so pesos, I never go about without that amount on my person.”

Here he pulled back his coat a bit and displayed a smaller roll of bills, though with the extreme circumspection of the city-bred man. The countryman seemed entirely satisfied with this proof of honesty and, shaking hands with the other most heartily, assured him that he had every confidence in him. Then he turned his simple face questioningly upon me.

I could not, of course, being a mere vagabonding “errand boy,” make any display of wealth. But it seemed so eminently my duty to keep an eye on the _Porteño_ until the countryman’s money had come into indisputably honest hands that I determined to invent myself a small fortune with which to keep my standing in the case. I drew out the nine pesos and some change in my pocket with an apologetic countenance and addressed my companions:

“I’m sorry not to be able to show at once that I am a person of means, but I am so well aware of the dangers of large cities that I never carry with me more than enough for the day’s expenses, and of course you are not interested in seeing this tiny amount,” which I then put back into my pocket.

“But you must have money somewhere,” asked the _Porteño_, anxiously, “just enough to show this gentleman we can be trusted to carry out his commission? Come over here a moment. You will excuse us for a minute, won’t you?” he added, addressing the _campesino_.

“Yes, but señores,” cried the latter, almost in tears, “you are not going to talk about anything to my hurt?”

“On the contrary, it is entirely for your good,” answered the townsman. “Just excuse us a moment until we arrange this matter to your satisfaction.”

The two of us crossed the street, where the _Porteño_ asked me again if I could not show I had money.

“Why, yes,” I lied, determined now at all costs not to let him take unfair advantage of the incredibly simple _estanciero_, “I have money in the—er—the German bank and in the German consulate. But how can I get it out, to-day being Sunday? Of course, if the bank-book would be sufficient proof for our friend, I could hurry home and get that.”

“Where do you live?”

“Tucumán 1671.”

“Well, now, how could we arrange?” puzzled the townsman. “You could go and get the bank-book. Or shall I go with you? No, it will be better for me to stay here with our friend, for with seven thousand pesos in his pocket, which anyone might take away from him—but you could run home and get the bank-book, and that perhaps would keep him interested until to-morrow, when the banks open—for of course, being a man from the pampa, he won’t know that a bank-book is proof of having money—and to-morrow you could get the money out and.... How much money have you in the bank?”

“I can’t say exactly,” I answered, ostensibly cudgeling my brains to remember, “perhaps a little over six thousand pesos.”

“Ah, that’s fine,” said the _Porteño_, his eyes shining, “because that, with what I have, will just about equal the seven thousand our friend has, and give him full confidence.” We turned back toward the countryman.

“Of course,” went on my companion, bringing his lips close to my ear, “when we get that seven thousand—and I know you are not the sort of man who will beat me out of my share just because it is going to be put into _your_ hands. Are you?” When I shook my head he grasped my hand and shook it fervently. “When we get that seven thousand it won’t much matter whether the priest and the hospital—you understand me, as man to man, don’t you?”

I gave him a wise look as we rejoined the countryman, who was nursing his feet as if city pavements were already blistering them. When we told him that if he wished to see my six thousand—for, as we expected, he had little knowledge of, or faith in, bank-books—he would have to stay over until the next day, he protested, naturally, that he must take the evening train, his poor father being likely to die at any moment. But he was apparently as tractable as he was simple, for when it was all explained to him, that I would go home at once and be back within half an hour, or forty minutes at the most, with my bank-book, that then we would all three spend the afternoon and night together somewhere until the banks opened in the morning, he admitted that that was probably the best way out of it, that “papá” always had had a strong constitution after all, that the money _must_ be properly placed before he returned home, and after drawing out and looking at the roll of seven thousand again and asking if we wanted him to count it to show that it was really that amount, to which the _Porteño_ hastily protested and begged him to get it back into his pocket as soon as possible, he agreed to our plan. I was to catch a car home at once, get my bank-book, and return to them on that same corner.

There being no car in sight, I set off at a swift pace along the tram line. As I looked around to see if the car was coming, the two waved to me to come back. I rejoined them, and the countryman again begged me not to say a word to anyone about the matter, since it was entirely a problem between his father and his conscience. I quieted his almost tearful fears by assuring him that I lived all alone, that I had scarcely a friend in Buenos Aires, and that I was naturally of a most taciturn disposition. As I turned away again, the townsman took a few steps after me and murmured in my ear, “If you will bring along your rings and jewels, too, that will help to win his confidence.” I assured him I would bring every piece of jewelry I possessed, and hurried off once more down the street car line.

A couple of blocks beyond, where the street curved and hid my friends from view, I turned a corner. A man who seemed to have been peering out from behind it asked me if I knew “those two persons.”

“No,” I answered, “we were merely passing the time of day.”

“But don’t you know _esos son ladrones_—those are thieves!” he cried.

“Señor,” I replied, “my very best thanks for your kind warning, but I discovered that about half an hour ago.”

Whereupon I continued for where I had started—to keep an engagement with a fellow-countryman at the afternoon races in Palermo, a rendezvous I had for a time feared I should have to miss unless I cut short my very entertaining Easter morning with the bunco steerers.