The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America

“Come along, den, Sooz’n. It’s all one to me where we goes, for your eyes dey make sunshine in de shade, an’ suffin as good as shade in de sunshine, ole gurl.”

“Git along wid your rubbish!” retorted Susan as they crossed the street. It was evident, however, that she was much pleased with her gallant spouse.

“Now, den dis is what I calls hebben upon art’,” said Quashy, sitting down with a contented sigh. “To be here a-frizzlin’ in de sunshine wid Sooz’n a-smilin’ at me like a black angel. D’you know, Sooz’n,” he added, with a serious look, “it gibs me a good deal o’ trouble to beliebe it.”

“Yes, it am awrful nice,” responded Susan, gravely, “but we’s not come here to make lub, Quashy, so hol’ your tongue, an’ I’ll tell you what I heared.”

She cleared her throat here, and looked earnest. Having thus reduced her husband to a state of the most solemn expectancy, she began in a low voice—

“You know, Quashy, dat poor Massa Lawrie hab found nuffin ob his fadder’s fortin.”

“Yes, I knows dat, Sooz’n,” replied her husband, with an expression of the deepest woe.

“Well, den—”

“No, Sooz’n, it’s ill den.”

“Quashy!” (remonstratively.)

“Yes?” (interrogatively.)

“Hol’ your tongue.”

“Yes, da’ling.”

“Well, den,” began Susan again, with serious emphasis, “don’ ’trupt me agin, or I’ll git angry. Well, massa, you know, is so honoribic dat he wouldn’t deceive nobody—not even a skeeter.”

“I knows dat, Sooz’n, not even a nigger.”

“Ob course not,” continued Susan; “so what does massa do, but goes off straight to Kurnel Muchbunks, an’ he says, says he, ‘Kurnel, you’s a beggar.’”

“No, Sooz’n, he di’n’t say dat. Dough you says it wid your own sweet lips, I don’ beliebe it.”

“Right, Quashy. You’s allers right,” returned the bride, with a beaming smile. “I made a ’stake—das all. I should hab said dat massa he said, says he, ‘Kurnel Muchbunks,’ says he, ‘I’s a beggar.’”

“Dat was a lie, Sooz’n,” said Quashy, in some surprise.

“I’s afeard it was,” assented Susan, gravely.

“Well, an’ what says de kurnel to dat?” asked the saddened negro, with a sigh.

“Oh! he beliebed it, an’ he says, says he, ‘I’s griebed to hear it, Mis’r Amstrung, an’ ob course you cannot ’spect me to gib my consent to my darter marryin’ a beggar!’ O Quash, w’en I hears dat—I—bu’sted a’most! I do beliebe if I’d bin ’longside o’ dat kurnel at dat momint I hab gib him a most horrible smack in de face.”

“De skownril!” muttered Quashy between his clenched teeth. “But what happen arter dat, Sooz’n?”

“Nuffin happen. Only poor massa he look bery sad, an’ says, says he, ‘Kurnel, I’s come to say farewell. I would not t’ink ob asking your consent to such a marriage, but I do ask you to hold out de hope dat if I ebber comes back agin wid a kumpitincy, (don’ know ’zactly what dat is, but dat’s what he called it)—wid a kumpitincy, you’ll not forbid me payin’ my ’dresses to your darter.’ What he wants to pay her dresses for, an’ why he calls dem his dresses, is more nor I can guess, but das what he say, an’ de kurnel he says, says he, ‘No, Mis’r Amstrung, I’ll not hold out no sich hope. It’s time enough to speak ob dat when you comes back. It’s bery kind ob you to sabe my darter’s life, but—’ an’ den he says a heap more, but I cou’n’t make it rightly out, I was so mad.”

“When dey was partin’, he says, says he, ‘Mis’r Amstrung, you mus’ promise me not to ’tempt to meet my darter before leaving.’ I know’d, by de long silence and den by de way he speak dat Massa Lawrence no like dat, but at last he says, says he, ‘Well, kurnel, I do promise dat I’ll make no ’tempt to meet wid her,’ an’ den he hoed away. Now, Quashy, what you t’ink ob all dat?”

“I t’ink it am a puzzler,” replied the negro, his face twisted up into wrinkles of perplexity. “I’s puzzled to hear dat massa tell a big lie by sayin’ he’s a beggar, an’ den show dat it’s a lie by offerin’ to pay for de kurnel’s darter’s dresses. It’s koorious, but white folk has sitch koorious ways dat it’s not easy to understan’ dem. Let’s be t’ankful, Sooz’n, you an’ me, that we’re bof black.”

“So I is, Quash, bery t’ankful, but what’s to be dooed? Is massa to go away widout sayin’ good-bye to Miss Manuela?”

“Cer’nly not,” cried the negro, with sudden energy, seizing his wife’s face between his hands, and giving her lips a smack that resounded over the place—to the immense delight of several little Gaucho boys, who, clothed in nothing but ponchos and pugnacity, stood gazing at the couple.

Quashy jumped up with such violence that the boys in ponchos fled as he hurried along the street with his bride, earnestly explaining to her as he went, his new-born plans.

At the same moment that this conversation was taking place, Lawrence Armstrong and Pedro—alias Conrad of the Mountains—were holding equally interesting and perhaps more earnest converse over two pots of coffee in a restaurant.

“I have already told you, senhor,” said Pedro, “that old Ignacio followed us thus hotly, and overtook us as it happened so opportunely, for the purpose of telling me of a piece of good fortune that has just been sent to me.”

“True,” returned Lawrence, “and in the bustle of the moment when you told me I forgot to congratulate you, whatever the good fortune may be. What was it?”

“Good old Ignacio little knew,” continued Pedro, sipping his coffee with an air of supreme contentment, “what glad news I had in store for himself about my little Mariquita—the light of my eyes, the very echo of her mother! The good fortune he had to tell me of was but as a candle to the sun compared with what I had to reveal to him, for what is wealth compared with love? However, the other piece of good news is not to be sneezed at.”

“But what is this good news, Pedro?” asked Lawrence, with a touch of impatience, for his curiosity was aroused, and Pedro’s mode of communicating glad tidings was not rapid.

Before he could reply their attention was attracted by the noisy and self-assertive entrance of two jovial British sailors, who, although not quite drunk, were in that condition which is styled by some people “elevated”—by others, debased. Whatever view may be taken of their condition, there could be only one opinion as to their effusive good-humour and universal good-will—a good-will which would probably have expanded at once into pugnacity, if any one had ventured to suggest that the couple had had more than enough of strong drink.

“Now then, Bill,” cried one, smiting the other with facetious violence on the back, “what’ll you have?” Then, without waiting for a reply, he added, to the waiter, “Let’s have some brary-an’-warer!”

The brandy and water having been supplied, Bill nodded his head, cried, “Here’s luck, Jim,” and drained his first glass. Jim responded with the briefer toast, “Luck!” and followed the other’s draining example.

“Now, I’ll tell you wot it is, Jim,” said Bill, setting down his glass and gazing at the brandy bottle with a solemnly virtuous look, “I wouldn’t go for to see another bull-fight like that one we saw just before we left Monte Video, no, not if you was to give me a thousan’ pound down.”

“No more would I,” responded Jim, regarding the water-jug with a virtuously indignant air.

“Such dis-gusting cruelty,” continued Bill. “To see two strong men stand up o’ their own accord an’ hammer their two noses into somethin’ like plum duff, an’ their two daylights into one, ain’t more nor a or’nary seaman can stand; but to see a plucky little bull set to gore an’ rip up a lot o’ poor blinded horses, with a lot o’ cowardly beggars eggin’ it on, an’ stickin’ darts all over it, an’ the place reekin’ wi’ blood, an’ the people cheerin’ like mad—why—it—it made me a’most sea-sick, which I never was in my life yet. Bah! Pass the bottle, Jim.”

“You’re right, Bill,” assented Jim, passing the bottle, “an’ it made poor young Ansty sick altogether. Leastwise, I saw his good-lookin’ face turn a’most green as he got up in a hurry like an’ left the place, for you know, big an’ well made as he is, an’ able to hold his own wi’ the best, Dick Ansty has the heart of a woman for tenderness. His only fault is that he’s a tee-totaller.”

“Ay, a g–great fault that,” said Bill, pouring out and spilling most of another glass. “I wouldn’t give much for him.”

“You couldn’t help likin’ him, though, if you’d sailed with him as I’ve done,” returned Jim. “He’s a reg’lar brick, though he don’t smoke neither.”

“Don’t smoke?” exclaimed Bill, aghast. “Then he ain’t fit for this world! Why, what does he think ’baccy was made for?”

“I dun know as to that, Bill, but I do know that he’s goin’ to leave us. You see, he’s only a sort of half-hand—worked his passage out, you know, an’ well he did it too, though he is only a land-lubber, bein’ a Cornishman, who’s bin lookin’ arter mines o’ some sort ever since he was a boy. He says he’s in great luck, havin’ fallen in wi’ a party as is just agoin’ to start for the west under a feller they call Conrad o’ the Mountains.”

Lawrence and Pedro, who had been trying to ignore the presence of the sailors, and to converse in spite of their noise, became suddenly interested at this point, and the former glanced inquiringly at the latter.

“Listen,” said Pedro, in a low voice, and with a nod of intelligence.

“It’s a queer story,” continued Jim. “I heard all about it this very mornin’ from himself. He’d bin givin’ some on us a lot o’ good advice. You see, he’s a sort of edicated chap, an’ got a tremendjous gift o’ the gab, but none of us could take offence at ’im, for he’s such a quiet, modest feller—although he is big! Well, you must know that—that—what was I sayin’?”

“P–pash th’ bottle,” said Bill.

“No, that’s not what I was— Oh yes, I was goin’ to say he’d bin givin’ us good advice, ‘because you must know, shipmates,’ says he, ‘that I’ve bin in good luck on shore, havin’ fallen in with a most interestin’ man, whose right name I don’t know yet, because everybody speaks of him as Conrad of the Mountains, though some calls him Pedro, and others the Rover of the Andes, and a good lot say he’s a robber. But I don’t care twopence what they say, for I’ve seen him, and believe him to be a first-rate feller. Anyhow, he’s a rich one, and has bin hirin’ a few men to help him to work his silver-mine, and as I know somethin’ about mining, he has engaged me to superintend the underground work.’