ON MULE BACK INTO CARACAS
“A fight! A fight!” came from Sam.
“Give it to him, Frank, don’t let him get the best of you,” put in
Darry.
“Stop them,” ordered Mark, trying to rise and then falling back with a
groan of pain. “Stop them, I say. Glummy is too big for Frank.”
“You let us alone,” growled the bully. “This is our fight and we’ll
settle it between us. He struck me first.”
While he was talking he was doing his best to get on top of Frank. But
the latter, though small, proved that he was powerful and Hockley held
him down with difficulty. The lank youth now hit out again and Frank
was struck in the nose and the blood began to flow from that organ.
“Let me up!” came from the smaller youth. And then he too struck out,
landing on Hockley’s chin. Then he jerked the lank youth by the arm
and Hockley rolled over on the grass, and in a moment Frank was on top.
“Get off!” howled the bully, in a terrible rage over being thus brought
to earth. “Get off, or I’ll hammer the life out of you!”
“You’ve got to spell able first,” retorted Frank and struck him in the
cheek. “There’s one for stepping on Mark’s ankle and there’s another to
teach you manners.” He struck out heavily. Then Hockley pulled him over
and they laid side by side panting and striking and each endeavoring to
rise.
Suddenly Frank saw his chance and struck the bully directly in the
mouth. The blow was delivered with all the force possible and it
loosened one of Hockley’s teeth and made it bleed.
“Hurrah! Good for Frank!” cried Sam. “That’s the sort.”
“Hi! hi! what does this mean, boys?” The call came from the brushwood
close at hand. “Stop that fighting instantly!”
The voice was that of Professor Strong, and both Frank and Hockley
lost no time in leaping to their feet. They stepped apart and it must
be confessed that Frank looked at the instructor rather shamefacedly.
Hockley was defiant.
“What have you boys been fighting about?” demanded Professor Strong, as
he came up and gazed at one and the other sternly.
“Newton started it,” answered Hockley. “He tackled me without any
reason for it.”
“That isn’t true,” cried Frank. “He kicked Mark’s sore ankle and that
made me mad, and I told him what a brute he was, and shoved him back
out of the way. Then he struck me in the shoulder.”
“It isn’t so, he hit me first,” said Hockley, surlily.
“What Frank says is true,” put in Darry. “He did kick Mark’s lame
ankle, and that was a shame.”
“How about this?” questioned the professor, of Mark.
“He struck my ankle when he was walking past, sir. He said it was an
accident, but----”
“It wasn’t,” broke in Frank. “I saw him do it on purpose.”
“Hockley’s been aching for a quarrel ever since he started,” came from
Sam.
“The whole crowd is down on me,” growled the lank youth. “They want
to run things to suit themselves and leave me out in the cold. My
father pays my way and I don’t see why I should play second fiddle to
anybody.”
“You will not be asked to play second fiddle, as you term it, Hockley,”
said the professor. “But at the same time I will allow no fighting. We
are here to see the sights, and I expect you all to behave like young
gentlemen. If you did not kick Mark in the ankle on purpose you should
at least have been more careful of your steps, for a sprained ankle
is nothing to fool with. I see your mouth is bleeding. You had better
bathe it in yonder pool. And Newton, you go to the next pool and bathe
your nose, and remember, this is the first and last fighting to be done
on this trip.”
Glad to get off thus easily the two boys walked away as directed and
each did what he could to stop the flow of blood. Sam and Darry wanted
to go after Frank but the professor stopped them.
“I want you two to help me with Mark,” said Professor Strong. “I have
found a native with several mules. He was carrying cane cuttings to
Caracas, but I have hired him to drop his loads for the present and
carry us instead. If you will join hands and catch Mark under the knees
I will take him under the arms, and we can carry him to the road.”
They soon had the crippled youth up and the professor pointed out the
direction in which the road over the mountain lay. The path to the
point was thickly overgrown with brush and they had literally to force
their way along. It was rough and more than once Mark felt like crying
out but showed his grit by shutting his teeth and keeping silent.
Frank soon followed the three and Hockley did the same. The bully
presently ranged up beside the smaller youth.
“Just you wait, I’ll get square yet,” he said, in a low tone.
“I’m not afraid of you,” retorted Frank, who was satisfied that he had
fully “kept up his end of the log,” as the saying is.
“The next time we come to blows I’ll not be so easy on you,” went on
Hockley. He was very angry to think that the smaller boy had not been
afraid of him.
“Perhaps I won’t be so easy either, Hockley,” was Frank’s answer, and
then he ran on, to aid the others in getting Mark to the mule path.
Down on the path they found the native, a little, dried-up old
Venezuelan, who had seven mules in his charge. The patient little
beasts were scarcely higher than Darry’s shoulder. Four had been
unloaded but the others stood in the road with loads of sugarcane
cuttings so large that only their eyes and noses could be seen.
“Gracious what loads!” murmured Darry, as he gazed at the mules.
“These mules will carry about all you can put on them,” said the
professor, with a smile. “I have seen one mule carrying three men, and
trotting along at that.”
The mules to be used by our friends were soon ready, and then Mark was
placed on the back of the one the native said was the best. Presently
all were “aboard,” as Darry expressed it, and the native led the
procession in the direction of Caracas.
They could already see the outskirts of the city, which is located
on the southern slope of the La Silla Mountain. To every side were
mountain peaks, with here and there a small valley with streams of
water of more or less importance. On the sides of the mule path were
plantains and palms, and further out the sugar and coffee plantations,
with their queer little huts and houses of pink, blue, and white.
“How large a place is Caracas?” questioned Sam, as they moved along as
rapidly as Mark’s condition permitted.
“There has been no accurate census taken for years, but the population
is probably 75,000 souls. You see the laboring classes--called peons
here--object to being enumerated for fear it may mean military service,
and so they hide when the census man comes around. The whole valley in
which the city lies numbers probably 150,000 souls.”
“The houses look a good deal alike to me,” observed Sam, as they made
their way down one of the highways leading directly to the Plaza
Bolivar, a park in the center of Caracas. “They all have mud and
plaster walls, red-tiled roofs, windows with bars over them and no
chimneys.”
“Yes, I noticed the absence of chimneys,” put in Frank, whose nose had
now stopped bleeding. “Wonder what they do when they want fire in a
house?”
“They never want fire,” answered Professor Strong. “It is too warm for
a fire. That is why they don’t have glass to the windows.”
“But they must cook.”
“They do, but they use charcoal and burn it in a little contrivance
something like a tinsmith’s stove. You’ll see plenty of them before you
leave for home.”
“They seem to paint their houses all colors,” muttered Hockley, who now
that Frank had spoken felt he too must say something. “There is a blue
and a white, and there is a red, and here is a brown, and over yonder
an orange.”
“Yes they use any color they please,” answered the professor. “It is
sometimes the only way of telling one’s house from that of a neighbor.
They may look ugly to you from the outside, but you’ll find many of
them quite handsome and very comfortable within.”
They had now entered the city proper and the sights and sounds around
them interested the boys so much that they forgot to talk. Natives were
hurrying by with huge bundles on their heads or balanced over their
shoulders, little children with hardly any clothes were playing in the
roadway, and the street was almost filled with pedlers and others on
mule back. At one spot they encountered a native driving several cows.
“He’s delivering his milk,” said the professor. “He finds out how much
a customer wants and then milks one of his cows to that extent.”
“Then the milk ought to be fresh and rich,” said Mark, who had found
the ride surprisingly comfortable despite the awkward appearance of his
steed.
“It is fresh enough, but not particularly rich, for the cows roam where
they please and rarely get enough to eat.”
“I should think a fellow would get all mixed up in a city where the
houses are so much alike,” said Sam.
“You won’t get mixed after you get the run of the place, Winthrop.
Remember that all the streets start from the cathedral at the Plaza
Bolivar. The four streets there are called Avenue North, East, South,
and West, and then follow Second Street North, Second Street East, and
so on.”
A few minutes more of riding brought them to the hotel at which they
were to remain during their stop in Caracas. The professor went inside
and announced their arrival and then the boys and he assisted Mark to
alight. They passed through a large iron gateway into a beautiful
square filled with flowers, where a fountain was playing. Then a
servant came to lead them to their rooms, which were all on the ground
floor, and in a few minutes more they could truly say they were at home
in Caracas.