Part 17 (1/2)
It was our Sat.u.r.day half-holiday and Henderson and I were driving the stagnation of a week's confinement out of our lungs by a long walk into the country. We were just starting back in the approaching dusk when a round stone that I happened to step on turned under my foot. I tried to grin, and hobbled along for a moment; then I sat down at the side of the road.
”It's my ankle. I don't believe I can make it, Fred.”
”Make a try at it, old man. It's only a short mile to the railroad station and there won't be any footing it from there. Perhaps walking will ease it up.”
I got up, but after a few steps sat down again.
”I'm awfully sorry, Fritz, but I simply can't do it. The thing hurts like all time.”
He stood still and looked about him. The road followed the curve of a hill, at the foot of which flowed a tiny brook. Ahead, it pa.s.sed through a little colony of houses, perhaps twenty in all. The hamlet had an air about it that marked it from numerous others we had walked through that afternoon. The cottages appeared brighter and there were gardens among them that seemed unlike the others we had pa.s.sed. No hotel or public house of any kind was to be seen.
”I wonder what this place is,” said Henderson. ”It doesn't look especially alluring.”
I looked up from the task of rubbing my ankle.
”No,” I commented, ”it doesn't seem alluring, and I suppose ninety-nine hundredths of the people that pa.s.s through here look at it the same way. But to you, Fred, I'm pretty sure it would be rather attractive, and I know that it would be to me with this beastly foot.”
”What! Stay here all night? I guess not.”
”If you only knew what it was,” I ventured.
”Probably another of Was.h.i.+ngton's headquarters, or the site of the Battle of--.”
”Wait a minute before you explode, and give me a chance. This is the Spanish colony.”
”What?”
”The Spanish colony.”
”What Spanish colony?”
”Of all things, do you mean to tell me that you never heard of it?”
”I do.”
”Well,” I said, ”it's wonderful how much New Yorkers don't know about themselves. This place was settled a long time ago by the few Spaniards there were in this part of the country, and they've stuck together ever since. I don't believe there are a hundred people in the city that know about the place. Maybe it's on account of the war, when these people had to keep pretty quiet, but whatever it is, they are here. I've been through here before and I've often wished that I could have stopped off. Now the Lord seems to have taken matters into His own hands.”
If there was anything Henderson enjoyed it was tales and relics of the old Romance lands, and I knew it. Then there was my ankle, which was throbbing painfully.
”If your old foot really is as bad as you say,” said Henderson, ”why, we can put up here over night. To-morrow is Sunday, you know, and we don't have to be back.”
He spoke condescendingly, but I knew that if I suggested that after all we might get back he would almost get down on his knees and plead with me. So I spared him the trouble. We started again toward the little hamlet. Henderson wanted to stop at the first house we came to, but I pulled him on.
”Let's tackle that larger white one ahead there to the right,” I suggested. ”It looks to be the best of the lot--and besides, the last time I was through here I noticed a mighty pretty girl standing in the doorway--one of those black-eyed story-book _senoritas_ you so dote on.”
”I'm surprised at a man of your age and dignity noticing _senoritas_,”
he laughed. Nevertheless he turned into the little garden and raised the iron knocker.
The door was opened almost instantly by a short, rather stoutish man, well past the prime of life. There was nothing in his dress to mark him from the average middle-cla.s.s New Yorker, but his face was swarthy and the hair that was not grey was glistening black. We explained our desires.
”I am afraid you can find no accommodations,” he said, with but the slightest trace of an accent.