Urgante was going
about the lower part of the city haranguing on street corners
without interference from the police. In the arroyo of the
slaughter-house, two American employees of the street-car company
had been stoned and beaten. Much aguardiente was in process of
consumption, it being a half-holiday in honor of some saint, and
nobody knew what trouble might break out.
"Bolas are rolling around like balls on a billiard table," said
young Raimonda, who had come after luncheon to call on Miss
Brewster. "In this part of the city there will be nothing. You
needn't be alarmed."
"I'm not afraid," said Miss Polly.
"I'm sure of it," declared the Caracunan, with admiration. "You
are very wonderful, you American women."
"Oh, no. It's only that we love excitement," she laughed.
"Ah, that is all very well, for a bull-fight or 'la boxe.' But for
one of our street emeutes--no; too much!"
They were seated on the roof of the half-story of the house, which
had been made into a trellised porch overlooking the patio in the
rear and the street in front, an architectural wonder in that city
of dead walls flush with the sidewalk line all the way up.
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