One was from San Francisco and one was from New York, but they resembled each other in appearance. This is an idiosyncrasy of geography.
They were never apart in the City of Mexico, at any rate, excepting perhaps when one had to his hotel for a , and then the other was usually camped down at the office sending up servants with messages. "Oh, get up and come on down."
They were two lads—they were called the kids—and far from their mothers. Occasionally some wise man pitied them, but he usually was alone in his wisdom. The other folk were transfixed at the splendour of the and endurance of these kids.
"When do those boys ever sleep?" murmured a man as he viewed them entering a café about eight o'clock one morning. Their smooth infantile faces looked bright and fresh enough, at any rate. "Jim told me he saw them still at it about 4.30 this morning."
"Sleep!" ejaculated a companion in a glowing voice. "They never sleep! They go to bed once in every two weeks." His boast of it seemed almost a personal pride.
"They'll end with a crash, though, if they keep it up at this pace," said a gloomy voice from behind a newspaper.
The Café Colorado has a front of white and gold, in which is set larger plate-glass windows than are commonly to be found in Mexico. Two little wings of flip-flapping serve as doors. Under them small stray dogs go into the café, and are shied into the street again by the waiters. On the side-walk there is always a effect of loungers, ranging from the newly-arrived and superior tourist to the old veteran of the silver mines bronzed by violent suns. They with various shades of interest the show of the street—the red, purple, dusty white, glaring against the walls in the furious sunshine.
One afternoon the kids strolled into the Café Colorado. A half-dozen of the men who sat smoking and reading with a sort of Parisian effect at the little tables which lined two sides of the room, looked up and bowed smiling, and although this coming of the kids was anything but an unusual event, at least a dozen men wheeled in their chairs to stare after them. Three waiters polished tables, and moved chairs noisily, and appeared to be eager. Distinctly these kids were of importance.
Behind the distant bar, the tall form of old Pop himself awaited them smiling with broad . "Well, my boys, how are you?" he cried in a voice of profound . He allowed five or six of his customers to in the care of Mexican bartenders, while he himself gave his attention to the kids, lending all the dignity of a great event to their arrival. "How are the boys to-day, eh?"
"You're a smooth old guy," said one, eying him. "Are you giving us this welcome so we won't notice it when you push your worst whisky at us?"
Pop turned in appeal from one kid to the other kid. "There, now, hear that, will you?" He assumed an pose. "Why, my boys, you always get the best that this house has got."
"Yes, we do!" The kids laughed. "Well, bring it out, anyhow, and if it's the same you sold us last night, we'll grab your cash register and run."
Pop whirled a bottle along the bar and then gazed at it with a rapt expression. "Fine as silk," he murmured. "Now just taste that, and if it isn't the best whisky you ever put in your face, why I'm a , that's all."
The kids surveyed him with scorn, and poured their allowances. Then they stood for a time insulting Pop about his whisky. "Usually it tastes exactly like new parlour furniture," said the San Francisco kid. "Well, here goes, and you want to look out for your cash register."
"Your health, gentlemen," said Pop with a grand air, and as he wiped his grey moustaches he wagged his head with reference to the cash register question. "I could catch you before you got very far."
"Why, are you a runner?" said one .
"You just bank on me, my boy," said Pop, with deep emphasis. "I'm a flier."
The kids sat down their glasses suddenly and looked at him. "You must be," they said. Pop was tall and and magnificent in manner, but he did not display those qualities of form which mean speed in the animal. His hair was grey; his face was round and fat from much living. The buttons of his glittering white waistcoat formed a fine curve, so that if the concave surface of a piece of barrel-hoop had been laid against Pop it would have touched every button. "You must be," observed the kids again.
"Well, you can laugh all you like, but—no jolly now, boys, I tell you I'm a winner. Why, I bet you I can skin anything in this town on a square go. When I kept my place in Eagle Pass there wasn't anybody who could touch me. One of these sure things came down from San Anton'. Oh, he was a runner he was. One of these people with wings. Well, I skinned 'im. What? Certainly I did. Never touched me."
The kids had been regarding him in grave silence, but at this moment they grinned, and said quite in chorus, "Oh, you old liar!"
Pop's voice took on a tone of earnestness. "Boys, I'm telling it to you straight. I'm a flier."
One of the kids had had a dreamy cloud in his eye and he cried out suddenly—"Say, what a joke to play this on Freddie."
The other jumped ecstatically. "Oh, wouldn't it though. Say he wouldn't do a thing but howl! He'd go crazy."
They looked at Pop as if they longed to be certain that he was, after all, a runner. "Now, Pop, on the level," said one of them wistfully, "can you run?"
"Boys," swore Pop, "I'm a peach! On the dead level, I'm a peach."
"By golly, I believe the old Indian can run," said one to the other, as if they were alone in confidence.
"That's what I can," cried Pop.
The kids said—"Well, so long, old man." They went to a table and sat down. They ordered a salad. They were always ordering salads. This was because one kid had a wild passion for salads, and the other didn't care. So at any hour of the day they might be seen ordering a salad. When this one came they went into a sort of executive session. It was a very long . Men it. Occasionally the kids laughed in of something unknown. The low of wheels came from the street. Often could be heard the parrot-like cries of distant . The sunlight streamed through the green curtains, and made little amber-coloured flitterings on the marble floor. High up among the severe decorations of the ceiling—reminiscent of the days when the great building was a palace—a small white butterfly was wending through the cool air spaces. The long billiard hall led back to a vague gloom. The balls were always clicking, and one could see elbows. Beggars slunk through the wicker doors, and were ejected by the nearest waiter. At last the kids called Pop to them.
"Sit down, Pop. Have a drink." They scanned him carefully. "Say now, Pop, on your solemn oath, can you run?"
"Boys," said Pop , and raising his hand, "I can run like a rabbit."
"On your oath?"
"On my oath."
"Can you beat Freddie?"
Pop appeared to look at the matter from all sides. "Well, boys, I'll tell you. No man is ever cock-sure of anything in this world, and I don't want to say that I can best any man, but I've seen Freddie run, and I'm ready to swear I can beat him. In a hundred yards I'd just about skin 'im neat—you understand, just about neat. Freddie is a good average runner, but I—you understand—I'm just—a little—bit—better." The kids had been listening with the utmost attention. Pop the latter part slowly and meanfully. They thought he intended them to see his great confidence.
One said—"Pop, if you throw us in this thing, we'll come here and drink for two weeks without paying. We'll back you and work a josh on Freddie! But O!—if you throw us!"
To this menace Pop cried—"Boys, I'll make the run of my life! On my oath!"
The salad having vanished, the kids arose. "All right, now," they warned him. "If you play us for duffers, we'll get square. Don't you forget it."
"Boys, I'll give you a race for your money. Book on that. I may lose—understand, I may lose—no man can help meeting a better man. But I think I can skin him, and I'll give you a run for your money, you bet."
"All right, then. But, look here," they told him, "you keep your face closed. Nobody gets in on this but us. Understand?"
"Not a soul," Pop declared. They left him, gesturing a last warning from the wicker doors.
In the street they saw Benson, his gripped in the middle, strolling through the white-clothed natives on the shady side. They semaphored to him eagerly. He came across cautiously, like a man who ventures into dangerous company.
"We're going to get up a race. Pop and Fred. Pop swears he can skin 'im. This is a tip. Keep it dark. Say, won't Freddie be hot?"
Benson looked as if he had been compelled to endure these exhibitions of for a century. "Oh, you fellows are off. Pop can't beat Freddie. He's an old bat. Why, it's impossible. Pop can't beat Freddie."
"Can't he? Want to bet he can't?" said the kids. "There now, let's see—you're talking so large."
"Well, you——"
"Oh, bet. Bet or else close your trap. That's the way."
"How do you know you can pull off the race? Seen Freddie?"
"No, but——"
"Well, see him then. Can't bet with no race arranged. I'll bet with you all right—all right. I'll give you fellows a tip though—you're a pair of . Pop can't run any faster than a brick school-house."
The kids at him and said—"Can't he?" They left him and went to the Casa Verde. Freddie, beautiful in his white jacket, was holding one of his innumerable conversations across the bar. He smiled when he saw them. "Where you boys been?" he demanded, in a tone. Almost all the of American cafés in the city used to adopt a paternal tone when they spoke to the kids.
"Oh, been 'round,'" they replied.
"Have a drink?" said the of the Casa Verde, forgetting his other social obligations. During the course of this ceremony one of the kids remarked—
"Freddie, Pop says he can beat you running."
"Does he?" observed Freddie without excitement. He was used to various of the kids.
"That's what. He says he can leave you at the wire and not see you again."
"Well, he lies," replied Freddie .
"And I'll bet you a bottle of wine that he can do it, too."
"Rats!" said Freddie.
"Oh, that's all right," pursued a kid. "You can throw all you like, but he can lose you in a hundred yards' dash, you bet."
Freddie drank his whisky, and then settled his elbows on the bar.
"Say, now, what do you boys keep coming in here with some pipe-story all the time for? You can't josh me. Do you think you can scare me about Pop? Why, I know I can beat him. He can't run with me. Certainly not. Why, you fellows are just jollying me."
"Are we though!" said the kids. "You daren't bet the bottle of wine."
"Oh, of course I can bet you a bottle of wine," said Freddie disdainfully. "Nobody cares about a bottle of wine, but——"
"Well, make it five then," advised one of the kids.
Freddie his shoulders. "Why, certainly I will. Make it ten if you like, but——"
"We do," they said.
"Ten, is it? All right; that goes." A look of weariness came over Freddie's face. "But you boys are foolish. I tell you Pop is an old man. How can you expect him to run? Of course, I'm no great runner, but then I'm young and healthy and—and a pretty smooth runner too. Pop is old and fat, and then he doesn't do a thing but tank all day. It's a cinch."
The kids looked at him and laughed rapturously. They waved their fingers at him. "Ah, there!" they cried. They meant that they had made a victim of him.
But Freddie continued to expostulate. "I tell you he couldn't win—an old man like him. You're crazy. Of course, I know you don't care about ten bottles of wine, but, then—to make such bets as that. You're twisted."
"Are we, though?" cried the kids in mockery. They had Freddie into a long and thoughtful on every possible chance of the thing as he saw it. They disputed with him from time to time, and at him. He laboured on through his argument. Their childish faces were bright with glee.
In the midst of it Wilburson entered. Wilburson worked; not too much, though. He had hold of the Mexican end of a great importing house of New York, and as he was a junior partner, he worked. But not too much, though. "What's the howl?" he said.
The kids . "We've got Freddie ."
"Why," said Freddie, turning to him, "these two Indians are trying to tell me that Pop can beat me running."
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading