THE HOUSE ON THE HILL
Beyond the town of Jerez and on the road that runs westward to San
Lucar, there is a hill. Once upon a time, a grey old watch-tower
stood upon its steepest place, but one day there came an eccentric
American who purchased the land on which it stood, demolished the
tower, and erected a castellated mansion. Rumour had it that he was
mad, but no American would be confined on a Spaniard's appreciation
of sanity.
The American consul at Jerez, of his charity and kindliness of heart,
journeyed out to call upon him, and received a cold welcome. A
message came to him that the proprietor was in bed with gout, and
neither then or at any time desired visitors, which so enraged the
well-meaning consul that he never called again. The American's
visits were of a fleeting character. He was in residence less than a
month in the year. Then one day he came and remained. His name was
registered as Señor Walter G. Brown, of New York. The English police
sought him as George T. Baggin, an absconding promoter, broker,
bucket-shop keeper, and all-round thief. After a time he began to
receive visitors, who stayed on also.
Then came a period when Mr. Walter G. Brown became aggressively
patriotic.
He caused to be erected on the topmost tower of his mansion an
enormous flagstaff, from which flew on rare occasions a ridiculously
small Stars and Stripes.
At night, the place of the flag was taken by a number of thick copper
strands, and simple-minded villagers in the country about reported
strange noises, for all the world like the rattling of dried peas in
a tin canister.
On the evening of a wintry day, many people journeyed up the steep
pathway that led to the mansion on the hill. They came singly and in
pairs, mostly riding, although one stout man drove up in a little
victoria drawn by two panting mules.
The last to come was Mr. Baggin, an unpleasant smile on his square
face.
By the side of his horse trotted a breathless man in a tattered coat,
his cropped head bare.
"I will show you where to stand," Baggin said. "There is a curtain
that covers a door. The man will pass by that curtain, and I shall
be with him. I will hold his arm--so. Then I will say, 'Count
Poltavo, I do not trust you,' and then----"
The ragged man swept the sweat from his forehead with the back of his
hand, for the path was steep.
"And then," he grunted, "I will strike."
"Surely," warned the other.
The man grinned.
"I shall not fail," he said significantly.
They disappeared into the great house--it is worthy of note that
Baggin opened the door with a key of his own--and darkness fell upon
the hill and upon the valley.
Far away, lights twinkling through the trees showed where Jerez lay.