turbed. She looked up without surprise or alarm as her third caller entered.
“Ah! it is the Señor Goodwin. Not often does he honour my poor house by his presence.”
“I must come oftener,” said Goodwin, with the Goodwin smile. “I hear that your cognac is the best between Belize to the north and Rio to the south. Set out the bottle, Madama let us have the proof in un vasito for each of us.
“My aguardiente,” said Madama, with pride, “is the best. It grows, in beautiful bottles, in the dark places among the banana-trees. Si, Señor. Only at midnight can they be picked by sailor-men who bring them, before daylight comes, to your back door. Good aguardiente is a verree difficult fruit to handle, Señor Goodwin.”
Smuggling, in Coralio, was much nearer than competition to being the life of trade. One spoke of it slyly, yet with a certain conceit, when it had been well accomplished.
“You have guests in the house to-night,” said Goodwin, laying a silver dollar upon the counter.
“Why not?” said Madama, counting the change.
