BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

peculiarly adapted to this equatorial climate. Walls of massive stone, impenetrable to heat, surrounded a patio paved with variegated tiles and brilliant with tropical flowers. From this patio doors opened into the various rooms of the house, while above were ranges of sleeping-chambers fronted by a light iron-railed balcony running round all four sides of the courtyard. The roof—generally called the azotea—was flat, and in many houses is used for family gatherings in the warm nights or during a temperate day. In this case, however, the Maraquando family made use of the patio, where the heat, particularly at noon, was not so great.

      It was a charming spot, cool, bright and airy, with plenty of brilliant-blossomed flowers standing round the sides in red, porous jars, and vividly green creepers which twisted round the squat pillars and clambered to the sunlight by the ladder of the balconies. An old Aztec sacrificial stone carved with ugly gods occupied the centre of the court, and here and there appeared misshapen statues of the same grotesque deities. A light awning, gaily striped with red and white, made the patio shady, and beneath this were cane chairs for the accommodation of the lazy, and small tables on which to place refreshments. It was a veritable castle of indolence, grateful to day-dreamers, and, as such, peculiarly acceptable to the Cholacacans, who are the least industrious people on this planet.

      Outside, the mansion, with its massive doors and iron rejas, presented a gloomy and forbidding appearance, more like a prison than a dwelling house. On entering the door, however, and passing through the dim zaguan, the internal cheerfulness of the patio was accentuated by the dullness without. Indeed, the sudden emergence into the light was somewhat bewildering, as with blue sky above and flower-decorated patio below, it was some time before the eye became accustomed to the blinding brilliance of the whole. Graceful architecture, hideous idols, the splendour of floral treasures, and silver glitter of the walls, the patio was a most charming spot, and eminently calculated to make life in this tropical zone remarkably pleasant.

      Into this city paradise, created by the hand of man, Jack introduced his friends, and formally presented them to Don Miguel, Jefe Politico of Tlatonac, who, having been informed of their arrival, awaited them in his patio according to the etiquette of the country. He was tall and lean and dry, with a most astonishing resemblance to Don Quixote as delineated by the pencil of Doré. For coolness, he wore a white linen suit, and shaded his austere face with a broad-brimed sombrero, which latter he removed with infinite grace on the appearance of the Englishman.

      “Welcome, gentlemen, to Tlatonac,” he said majestically, in Spanish; “my house and all therein is at your disposal.”

      After this hospitable greeting, he insisted that they should seat themselves in order to partake of some light refreshment. They had the greatest difficulty in assuring him that they were not hungry; as, indeed, they had just finished breakfast before leaving the yacht. Ultimately, in order not to offend their courteous host, they accepted some pulque, the national beverage of Mexico, and were sorry for the concession. Jack was used to the drink, and professed to like it; but the others pronounced it beastly. Those who have tried pulque for the first time will heartily endorse this opinion.

      “Oh, oh!” spluttered Peter, trying to conceal his distaste from their host; “it’s like bad butter-milk.”

      “What would I not give for a glass of whisky! ‘Tis pig-wash, this same.”

      “It is certainly not the milk of Paradise,” said Philip, in disgust.

      Don Miguel had retired for a moment in search of cigars for the party, so they could express themselves freely to Jack. They took full advantage of the opportunity.

      “The Mexicans say the angels in heaven prefer it to wine,” said Jack, who had finished his glass with great gusto. “They have a proverb:

      “‘Lo beben, los angeles

       En vez de vino.’”

      “I can’t say much for the angels’ taste, then,” retorted Philip, crossly. “Nastier stuff I never drank. Raki is bad enough, but it’s nectar compared with pulque.”

      Jack laughed heartily at the wry faces made by his friends, and comforted them after the manner of Job’s acquaintances.

      “You’ll have to drink it, however. Don Miguel will be offended if you do not.”

      They all promptly poured the liquor into some of the flower-bearing jars which happened, fortunately enough, to be handy.

      “There,” said Peter, triumphantly; “he’ll think we have finished it.”

      “I’ll bring a pocket-pistol next time,” said Tim, gloomily. “I’ll be having the cholera with this stuff.”

      “Hush! here is Don Miguel.”

      Their host returned with a good supply of cigars, which proved to be more acceptable than the pulque. Maraquando expressed great surprise that Peter did not smoke.

      “What does he say?” asked Peter, woefully ignorant of Spanish.

      “That you ought to smoke.”

      Peter shook his head in disgust.

      “Tell Don Miguel tobacco is slow poison.”

      Maraquando laughed when this was translated to him.

      “It must be very slow, Señor,” he said, smiling. “I have smoked for forty years, and yet the poison has not overtaken me as yet.”

      All laughed at this speech save Peter, who could not appreciate jokes in the tongue of Castille. Indeed, he began to find his ignorance of Spanish somewhat annoying, as his friends, who acted as interpreters, played tricks on him. He became proficient in the tongue when Doña Serafina took him in hand; but that was many weeks later.

      All this time Jack was wondering why Dolores did not appear to welcome him back. As it was not etiquette to ask directly for the ladies of the family, he made the inquiry in a roundabout way.

      “Your family I trust are well, Señor?”

      “They are in excellent health, I thank you, Señor Juan. At present I have but my daughter with me. Doña Serafina and Dolores are staying for a few days at my estancio.”

      This was bad news for Jack; but as Don Miguel’s eyes were fixed inquiringly on his face, he was forced to dissemble his sorrow.

      “And Don Rafael?”

      “Is at present with his ship at Acauhtzin.”

      “What! with Don Hypolito?”

      The expression on Maraquando’s face changed, and he seemed about to burst out into a furious speech; but, out of courtesy, restrained himself for the present.

      “We will talk of this again,” he said, gravely. “I am sure you do not care about our politics.”

      “Indeed we do,” replied Jack, emphatically. “This gentleman”—indicating Tim—“is a special correspondent, sent here by a great English paper, to report on your war.”

      “Our war!” echoed the Spaniard, with some surprise. “How do you know there is to be a war?”

      “The telegrams to Europe say as much!” interposed Tim, speaking in Spanish.

      “Telegrams sent by Don Hypolito, I have no doubt,” responded Maraquando, grimly. “There will be no war, gentlemen.”

      “Carambo! Sacré! Damn!” ejaculated Tim, who swore fluently in all three languages. “I have been tricked, then?”

      “Wait a moment, Señor Corresponsal. You will have plenty to write about; I will tell you some astonishing news shortly. Meanwhile, I must present you to my daughter, Doña Eulalia.”

      The girl who appeared at this moment caused them all to rise to their feet, and assuredly a more beautiful vision could not be seen anywhere. She was a little sparkling brunette, all eyes and smiles (as Tim afterwards phrased it), and when she beheld Jack, came forward eagerly to greet him