Mr. Jack laughed loudly. He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper.
“You are a fool to believe it,” he went on. “They don’t really dance. It’s the fever in your head. It’s the hard work and the bad water that does it. You are sick for weeks and there is no medicine. The fever comes on every evening, and then you are as strong as two men. One night the compañia are lying drunk with mescal. They have brought back sacks of silver dollars from a ride, and they drink to celebrate. In the night you file the chain in two and go down the mountain. You walk for miles—hundreds of them. By and by the mountains are all gone, and you come to the prairies. They do not dance at night; they are merciful, and you sleep. Then you come to the river, and it says things to you. You follow it down, down, but you can’t find what you are looking for.”
Mr. Jack leaned back in his chair, and his eyes slowly closed. The food and wine had steeped him in a deep, calm. The tense strain had been smoothed from his face. The languor of repletion was claiming him. Drowsily he spoke again.
“It’s bad manners—I know—to go to sleep—at table—but—that was—such a good dinner—Grande, old fellow.”
Grande! The owner of the name started and set down his glass. How should this wretched tatterdemalion whom he had invited, Caliph-like, to sit at his feast know his name?
Not at first, but soon, little by little, the suspicion, wild
