His name was Pedronez and
his wife's Lucina. Then I asked how long they'd lived there.
"One year, six months," he says, counting on his fingers.
"Build the house?"
"Si, senor. A noble house! A miracle!"
"Ever dig a hole here?"
"A hole! But why a hole? In the ground of the noble house! Ah, no!
By no means!"
Monson roared again, to the fright of Pedronez and Lucina, who
flattened herself against the wall. He went out and brought in the
spade, and the bags. I guarded the door, and Monson dug where I
pointed in the hard trodden earth of the floor. Pedronez and Lucina
backed into corners and chattered crazy. They seemed to think the
hole was for them, and Monson meant to bury them in it, which had as
reasonable a look as anything.
Clyde's money was there still, lying no more than two feet from
where Pedronez and Lucina had walked over it eighteen months,
grubbing out a poor living. The brown bags were all rotted away and
the coin was sticky with clay. I laid a handful on the table, and
told Pedronez to buy the tobacco of the others in the morning, but I
didn't suppose he would. It seemed a hard sort of joke played by luck
on the little Windward Islander, Clyde's money lying there so long,
twenty-four inches from the soles of his feet.
Pages:
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174