THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED.
A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito.It bores you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.Therefore let us have the moral first and be done with it.All is not gold that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the stopper in his bottle of testing acid.
Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by George the Veracious is the Little Rialto.Here stand the actors of that quarter, and this is their shibboleth: "'Nit,' says I to Frohman, 'you can't touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,' and out Iwalks."
Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two streets where a Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical warmth in the nipping North.The centre of life in this precinct is "El Refugio," a caf'e and restaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from the South.Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of Central America and the ireful islands of the Western Indies flit the cloaked and sombreroed se~nores, who are scattered like burning lava by the political eruptions of their several countries.
Hither they come to lay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit funds, to enlist filibusterers, to smuggle out arms and ammunitions, to play the game at long taw.In El Refugio, they find the atmosphere in which they thrive.
In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to the palate of the man from Capricorn or Cancer.Altruism must halt the story thus long.On, diner, weary of the culinary subterfuges of the Gallic chef, hie thee to El Refugio! There only will you find a fish--bluefish, shad or pompano from the Gulf--baked after the Spanish method.Tomatoes give it color, individuality and soul; chili colorado bestows upon it zest, originality and fervor; unknown herbs furnish piquancy and mystery, and--but its crowning glory deserves a new sentence.
Around it, above it, beneath it, in its vicinity--but never in it--hovers an ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and ddelicate that only the Society for Psychical Research could note its origin.Do not say that garlic is in the fish at El Refugio.It is not otherwise than as if the spirit of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss that lingers in the parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in life, "by hopeless fancy feigned on lips that are for others." And then, when Conchito, the waiter, brings you a plate of brown frijoles and carafe of wine that has never stood still between Oporto and El Refugio--ah, Dios!
One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No.55Gen.Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena.The General was between a claybank and bay in complexion, had a 42-inch waist and stood 5 feet 4 with his Du Barry heels.He had the mustache of a shooting-gallery proprietor, he wore the full dress of a Texas congressman and had the important aspect of an uninstructed delegate.
Gen.Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to inquire his way to the street in which El Refugio stood.When he reached that neighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red-brick house that read, "Hotel Espa~nol." In the window was a card in Spanish, "Aqui se habla Espa~nol." The General entered, sure of a congenial port.
In the cozy office was Mrs.O'Brien, the proprietress.She had blond--oh, unimpeachably blond hair.For the rest she was amiability, and ran largely to inches around.Gen.Falcon brushed the floor with his broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of Spanish, the syllables sounding like firecrackers gently popping their way down the string of a bunch.
"Spanish or Dago?" asked Mrs.O'Brien, pleasantly.
"I am a Colombian, madam," said the General, proudly."I speak the Spanish.The advisment in your window say the Spanish he is spoken here.How is that?""Well, you've been speaking it, ain't you?" said the madam."I'm sure I can't."At the Hotel Espa~nol General Falcon engaged rooms and established himself.At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to view the wonders of this roaring city of the North.As he walked he thought of the wonderful golden hair of Mme.O'Brien."It is here," said the General to himself, no doubt in his own language, "that one shall find the most beautiful se~noras in the world.Ihave not in my Colombia viewed among our beauties one so fair.
But no! It is not for the General Falcon to think of beauty.It is my country that claims my devotion."At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General became involved.The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset him against a pushcart laden with oranges.A cab driver missed him an inch with a hub, and poured barbarous execrations upon his head.He scrambled to the sidewalk and skipped again in terror when the whistle of a peanut-roaster puffed a hot scream in his ear.V'algame Dios! What devil's city is this?"As the General fluttered out of the streamers of passers like a wounded snipe he was marked simultaneously as game by two hunters.One was "Bully" McGuire, whose system of sport required the use of a strong arm and the misuse of an eight-inch piece of lead pipe.The other Nimrod of the asphalt was "Spider"Kelley, a sportsman with more refined methods.
In pouncing upon their self-evident prey, Mr.Kelley was a shade the quicker.His elbow fended accurately the onslaught of Mr.
McGuire.
"G'wan!" he commanded harshly."I saw it first." McGuire slunk away, awed by superior intelligence.
"Pardon me," said Mr.Kelley, to the General, "but you got balled up in the shuffle, didn't you? Let me assist you." He picked up the General's hat and brushed the dust from it.
The ways of Mr.Kelley could not but succeed.The General, bewildered and dismayed by the resounding streets, welcomed his deliverer as a caballero with a most disinterested heart.
