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.
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