CHAPTER XXXV.
A CAFE QUARREL.
"I suppose this is the Madison Square of Santiago,"
remarks Jack Ashley, as he notes approvingly the brilliant
spectacle which the plaza affords, now that the tropic
night is atoning for the enervating heat of the tropic
afternoon. Santiago, like all Cuban cities, wakes up
measurably early, bustles about for three hours or so, and
then dozes or fans itself until the sun drops into the sea
and night comes with scarcely a shadow of twilight.
And then Santiago wakes again with a start, and for a few more hours laughs and chatters, promenades and flirts until about 10 o'clock, when the curtain falls, not to rise again until the sun is well up the morning sky.
The nightly gathering on the plaza has been tersely described as "a scene of shoulders, arms, trains, jewels and cascarilla."
The women monopolize the plaza and the men the cafe, the latter a simple interior, a mere loafing-place for the Cuban, whose capacities as an idler are the result of many years' practice in the gentle art of doing nothing.
Into one of the cafés that border the panorama of gayety strolls Ashley. The place is crowded, but over in the farthest corner he sees a table at which only one person is seated. Toward this he threads his way, but when almost there his progress is impeded by a party of four who are taking up more space than the law of equality allows.
"Pardon me," remarks Jack, as he brushes past the chair of an unamiable-appearing individual in undress military attire. The latter moves reluctantly and growls something which Ashley suspects is not complimentary, and as he drops into a seat he asks the gentleman across the table: "Do you speak English, sir?"
"Occasionally," is the brief rejoinder.
