Nostromo, a Tale of the Seaboard - The Original Classic Edition. Conrad Joseph

Your son? But you are right, padrone. If he had been like me he would have been a man."

       He turned his horse slowly, and paced on between the booths, checking the mare almost to a standstill now and then for children, for the groups of people from the distant Campo, who stared after him with admiration. The Company's lightermen saluted him from afar; and the greatly envied Capataz de Cargadores advanced, amongst murmurs of recognition and obsequious greetings, towards

       the huge circus-like erection. The throng thickened; the guitars tinkled louder; other horsemen sat motionless, smoking calmly above

       the heads of the crowd; it eddied and pushed before the doors of the high-roofed building, whence issued a shuffle and thumping

       of feet in time to the dance music vibrating and shrieking with a racking rhythm, overhung by the tremendous, sustained, hollow roar of the gombo. The barbarous and imposing noise of the big drum, that can madden a crowd, and that even Europeans cannot hear without a strange emotion, seemed to draw Nostromo on to its source, while a man, wrapped up in a faded, torn poncho, walked

       by his stirrup, and, buffeted right and left, begged "his worship" insistently for employment on the wharf. He whined, offering the

       Senor Capataz half his daily pay for the privilege of being admitted to the swaggering fraternity of Cargadores; the other half would

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       be enough for him, he protested. But Captain Mitchell's right-hand man--"invaluable for our work--a perfectly incorruptible fel-low"--after looking down critically at the ragged mozo, shook his head without a word in the uproar going on around.

       The man fell back; and a little further on Nostromo had to pull up. From the doors of the dance hall men and women emerged tottering, streaming with sweat, trembling in every limb, to lean, panting, with staring eyes and parted lips, against the wall of the structure, where the harps and guitars played on with mad speed in an incessant roll of thunder. Hundreds of hands clapped in there; voices shrieked, and then all at once would sink low, chanting in unison the refrain of a love song, with a dying fall. A red flower, flung with a good aim from somewhere in the crowd, struck the resplendent Capataz on the cheek.

       He caught it as it fell, neatly, but for some time did not turn his head. When at last he condescended to look round, the throng near him had parted to make way for a pretty Morenita, her hair held up by a small golden comb, who was walking towards him in the open space.

       Her arms and neck emerged plump and bare from a snowy chemisette; the blue woollen skirt, with all the fullness gathered in front, scanty on the hips and tight across the back, disclosed the provoking action of her walk. She came straight on and laid her hand on the mare's neck with a timid, coquettish look upwards out of the corner of her eyes.

       "Querido," she murmured, caressingly, "why do you pretend not to see me when I pass?"

       "Because I don't love thee any more," said Nostromo, deliberately, after a moment of reflective silence.

       The hand on the mare's neck trembled suddenly. She dropped her head before all the eyes in the wide circle formed round the generous, the terrible, the inconstant Capataz de Cargadores, and his Morenita.

       Nostromo, looking down, saw tears beginning to fall down her face.

       "Has it come, then, ever beloved of my heart?" she whispered. "Is it true?"

       "No," said Nostromo, looking away carelessly. "It was a lie. I love thee as much as ever." "Is that true?" she cooed, joyously, her cheeks still wet with tears.

       "It is true."

       "True on the life?"

       "As true as that; but thou must not ask me to swear it on the Madonna that stands in thy room." And the Capataz laughed a little in response to the grins of the crowd.

       She pouted--very pretty--a little uneasy.