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Whirligigs-Part11_O.Henry(1862-1910)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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prisoner by a band of savage Indians subdued by the

spell of her wonderful voice' -- wouldn't that make great



stuff? But I guess I quit the game winner, anyhow --

there ought to be a couple of thousand dollars in



that sack of gold dust I collected as encores, don't you

think?"



He left her at the door of the little Hotel de Buen

Descansar, where she had stopped before. Two hours



later he returned to the hotel. He glanced in at the

open door of the little combined reception room and



cafe.

Half a dozen of Macuto's representative social and



official caballeros were distributed about the room.

Sefior Villablanca, the wealthyrubber concessionist,



reposed his fat figure on two chairs, with an emollient

smile beaming upon his chocolate-coloured face. Guil-



bert, the French mining engineer, leered through his

polished nose-glasses. Colonel Mendez, of the regular



army, in gold-laced uniform and fatuous grin, was busily

extracting corks from champagne bottles. Other pat-



terns of Macutian gallantry and fashion pranced and

posed. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke. Wine



dripped upon the floor.

Perched upon a table in the centre of the room in an



attitude of easy preeminence was Mlle. Giraud. A

chic costume of white lawn and cherry ribbons supplanted



her travelling garb. There was a suggestion of lace, and

a frill or two, with a discreet, small implication of hand-



embroidered pink hosiery. Upon her lap rested a guitar.

In her face was the light of resurrection, the peace of



elysium attained through fire and suffering. She was

singing to a livelyaccompaniment a little song:



"When you see de big round moon

Comin' up like a balloon,



Dis nigger skips fur to kiss de lips

Ob his stylish, black-faced coon."



The singer caught sight of Armstrong.

"Hi! there, Johnny," she called; "I've been expecting



you for an hour. What kept you? Gee! but these

smoked guys are the slowest you ever saw. They ain't



on, at all. Come along in, and I'll make this coffee-

coloured old sport with the gold epaulettes open one for



you right off the ice."

"Thank you," said Armstrong; "not just now, I



believe. I've several things to attend to."

He walked out and down the street, and met Rucker



coming up from the Consulate.

"Play you a game of billiards," said Armstrong. "I



want something to take the taste of the sea level out of

my mouth."



"GIRL"

IN GILT letters on the ground glass of the door of



room No. 962 were the words: "Robbins & Hartley,

Brokers." The clerks had gone. It was past five, and



with the solid tramp of a drove of prize Percherons, scrub-

women were invading the cloud-capped twenty-story



office building. A puff of red-hot air flavoured with

lemon peelings, soft-coal smoke and train oil came in



through the half-open windows.

Robbins, fifty, something of an overweight beau, and



addicted to first nights and hotel palm-rooms, pretended

to be envious of his partner's commuter's joys.



"Going to be something doing in the humidity line

to-night," he said. "You out-of-town chaps will be the



people, with your katydids and moonlight and long drinks

and things out on the front porch."



Hartley, twenty-nine, serious, thin, good-looking, ner-

vous, sighed and frowned a little.



"Yes," said he, "we always have cool nights in Floral-

hurst, especially in the winter."



A man with an air of mystery came in the door and

went up to Hartley.






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