Brandon of the Engineers

On the evening of one pay-day, Dick took a short cut through the

half-breed quarter of Santa Brigida. As not infrequently happens in old

Spanish cities, this unsavory neighborhood surrounded the cathedral and

corresponded in character with the localities known in western America as

"across the track." Indeed, a Castilian proverb bluntly plays upon the

juxtaposition of vice and bells.

Ancient houses rose above the dark and narrow street. Flakes of plaster

had fallen from their blank walls, the archways that pierced them were

foul and strewn with refuse, and a sour smell of decay and garbage

tainted the stagnant air. Here and there a grossly fat, slatternly woman

leaned upon the rails of an outside balcony; negroes, Chinamen, and

half-breeds passed along the broken pavements; and the dirty,

open-fronted wine-shops, where swarms of flies hovered about the tables,

were filled with loungers of different shades of color.

By and by Dick noticed a man in clean white duck on the opposite side of

the street. He was a short distance in front, but his carriage and the

fit of his clothes indicated that he was a white man and probably an

American, and Dick slackened his pace. He imagined that the other would

sooner not be found in that neighborhood if he happened to be an

acquaintance. The fellow, however, presently crossed the street, and when

he stopped and looked about, Dick, meeting him face to face, saw with

some surprise that it was Kemp, the fireman, who had shown him an

opportunity of escaping from the steamer that took them South.

Kemp had turned out a steady, sober man, and Dick, who had got him

promoted, wondered what he was doing there, though he reflected that his

own presence in the disreputable locality was liable to be misunderstood.

Kemp, however, looked at him with a twinkle.

"I guess you're making for the harbor, Mr. Brandon?"

Dick said he was, and Kemp studied the surrounding houses.

"Well," he resumed, "I'm certainly up against it now. I don't know much

Spanish, and these fool dagos can't talk American, while they're packed

so tight in their blamed tenements that it's curious they don't fall out

of the windows. It's a tough proposition to locate a man here."

"Then you're looking for somebody?"

"Yes. I've tracked Payne to this calle, but I guess there's some

trailing down to be done yet."

"Ah!" said Dick; for Payne was the dismissed storekeeper. "Why do you

want him?"

"I met him a while back and he'd struck bad luck, hurt his arm, for one

thing. He'd been working among the breeds on the mole and living in their

tenements, and couldn't strike another job. I reckoned he might want a

few dollars, and I don't spend all my pay."

Dick nodded, because he understood the unfortunate position of the white

man who loses caste in a tropical country. An Englishman or American may

engage in manual labor where skill is required and the pay is high, but

he must live up to the standards of his countrymen. If forced to work

with natives and adopt their mode of life, he risks being distrusted and

avoided by men of his color. Remembering that Payne had interfered when

he was stabbed, Dick had made some inquiries about him, but getting no

information decided that he had left the town.