Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard
But afterwards? he asked himself. Later on, when a keeper came to live in the cottage that was being built some hundred and fifty yards back from the low light-tower, and four hundred or so from the dark, shaded, jungly ravine, containing the secret of his safety, of his influence, of his magnificence, of his power over the future, of his defiance of ill-luck, of every possible betrayal from rich and poor alike what then? He could never shake off the treasure. His audacity, greater than that of other men, had welded that vein of silver into his life. And the feeling of fearful and ardent subjection, the feeling of his slavery so irremediable and profound that often in his thoughts he compared himself to the legendary gringos, neither dead nor alive, bound down to their conquest of unlawful wealth on Azuera weighed heavily on the independent Captain Fidanza, owner and master of a coasting schooner, whose smart appearance and fabulous good luck in trading were so well known along the western seaboard of a vast continent.
Fiercely whiskered and grave, a shade less supple in his walk, the vigor and symmetry of his powerful limbs lost in the vulgarity of a brown tweed suit, made by Jews in the slums of London and sold by the clothing department of the Compania Anzani, Captain Fidanza was seen in the streets of Sulaco attending to his business, as usual, that trip. And, as usual, he allowed it to get about that he had made a great profit on his cargo. It was a cargo of salt fish, and Lent was approaching. He was seen in tram-cars going to and fro between the town and the harbor; he talked with people in a café or two in his measured,
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