A month after Fuller sailed his son arrived at Santa Brigida, and Dick, who met him on the mole, got something of a surprise when a handsome youth landed and came straight towards him. Jake Fuller was obviously very young, but had an ease of manner and a calm self-confidence that would have done credit to an elderly man of the world. His clothes showed nice taste, and there was nothing about him to indicate the reckless scapegrace Dick had expected.

“You’re Brandon, of course,” he said as he shook hands. “Glad to meet you. Knew you a quarter of a mile off.”

“How’s that?” Dick asked. “You haven’t seen me before.”

“For one thing, you’re stamped Britisher; then you had a kind of determined look, as if you’d come down to yank me right off to the irrigation ditches before I’d time to run loose in the city. Matter of duty to you, and you were going to put it through.”

Dick said nothing, and Jake laughed. “Well, that’s all right; I guess we’ll hit it! And now we’ll put out when you like. I laid in a pretty good breakfast on the boat; I like smart service and a well-chosen menu, and don’t suppose you have either at the camp.”

“They might be better,” Dick agreed, feeling that he had promised Miss Fuller more than he might be able to perform. Then he told a peon to take Jake’s luggage and led the way to a mule carriage at the end of the mole.

“I didn’t expect to ride in a transfer-wagon,” Jake remarked. “Haven’t you any autos yet? If not, I’ll indent for one when the next stock order goes home.”

“Perhaps you had better wait until you see the roads.”

“You’re surely British,” Jake replied. “If you’d been an American, you’d get the car first and make the roads fit in. However, you might tell the ancient dago to get a move on.”

Dick was silent for the next few minutes. On the whole, he thought he would like Fuller, and made some allowance for the excitement he, no doubt, felt at beginning his career in a foreign country, but none for any wish to impress his companion. It was unlikely that the self-possessed lad would care what Dick thought of him, although it looked as if he meant to be friendly. Then as the sweating mules slowly climbed the rutted track out of the town Dick began to point out the changing level of the land, the ravines, or barrancos, that formed natural drainage channels from the high watershed, and the influence of drought and moisture on the cultivation. Jake showed a polite interest, but inquired what amusements were to be had in Santa Brigida, about which Dick gave him as little information as possible. If he had understood Miss Fuller’s hints, the Spanish city was no place for her brother.

Jake spent the day following Dick about the works and made no complaint about the heat and dust, though he frowned when a shower of cement or a splash of oil fell upon his clothes. It was obvious that he knew nothing about engineering, but the questions he asked indicated keen intelligence and Dick was satisfied. A room adjoining the latter’s quarters had been prepared for the newcomer, and they sat, smoking, on the veranda after the evening meal.

“Do you think you’ll like your work?” Dick asked.

“I’ve got to like it, and it might be worse. Since I’m not allowed to draw or model things, I can make them, and I guess that’s another form of the same talent, though it’s considerably less interesting than the first.”

“But perhaps more useful,” Dick suggested.

“Well, I don’t know. Our taste is pretty barbarous, as a rule, and you can’t claim that yours is more advanced, but I allow that the Spaniards who built Santa Brigida had an eye for line and color. These dagos have a gift we lack; you can see it in the way they wear their clothes. My notion is that it’s some use to teach your countrymen to admire beauty and grace. We’re great at making things, but there’s no particular need to make them ugly.”

“Then you’re a bit of an artist?”

“I meant to be a whole one and might have made good, although the old man has not much use for art. Unfortunately, however, I felt I had to kick against the conventionality of the life I led and the protest I put up was a little too vigorous. It made trouble, and in consequence, my folks decided I’d better be an engineer. I couldn’t follow their arguments, but had to acquiesce.”

“It’s curious how you artists claim to be exempt from the usual rules, as if you were different from the rest of us.”

“We are different,” Jake rejoined with a twinkle. “It’s our business to see the truth of things, while you try to make it fit your formulas about what you think is most useful to yourself or society. A formula’s like bad spectacles; it distorts the sight, and yours is plainly out of focus. For example, I guess you’re satisfied with the white clothes you’re wearing.”

“I don’t know that it’s important, but what’s the matter with them?”

“Well,” said Jake, with a critical glance, “they’re all wrong. Now you’ve got good shoulders, your figure’s well balanced, and I like the way you hold your head, but your tailor has spoiled every prominent line. I’ll show you some time when I model you in clay.” He paused and grinned. “I guess the Roman sentinel pose would suit you best, as I noted it when you stood on the mole waiting for me, determined to do your duty at any cost. Besides, there is something of the soldier about you.”

“I wish you’d stop rotting,” said Dick with a touch of awkwardness, though he saw that Jake knew nothing about his leaving the army. “Was it your father’s notion that you should be an engineer?”

“He thinks so,” Jake answered, grinning. “My opinion is that you have to thank my sister Ida for the job of looking after me. She made this her business until I went to Yale, when, of course, she lost control. Ida has a weakness for managing people, for their good, but you ought to take it as a delicate compliment that she passed me on to you.”

“After all, Miss Fuller’s age must be nearly the same as mine,” Dick remarked.

“I see what you mean, but in some respects she’s much older. In fact, I guess I could give you a year or two myself. But it seems to me you’ve kind of wilted since we began to talk. You’ve gone slack and your eyes look heavy. Say, I’m sorry if I’ve made you tired.”

“I don’t think you had much to do with it,” said Dick. “My head aches and I’ve a shivery feeling that came on about this time last night. A touch of malarial fever, perhaps; they get it now and then in the town, though we ought to be free from it on the hill. Anyhow, if you don’t mind, I’ll get off to bed.”

He went away, and Jake looked about the veranda and the room that opened on to it. There was a canvas chair or two, a folding table, a large drawing board on a trestle frame, and two cheap, tin lamps. It was obvious that Dick thought of nothing much except his work and had a Spartan disregard for comfort.

“A good sort, but it’s concrete first and last with him,” Jake remarked. “Guess I’ve got to start by making this shack fit for a white man to live in.”

Dick passed a restless night, but felt better when he began his work on the dam next morning, though he did not touch the small hard roll and black coffee his colored steward had put ready for him. The air was fresh, the jungle that rolled down the hill glittered with dew, and the rays of the red sun had, so far, only a pleasant warmth. Cranes were rattling, locomotives snorted as they moved the ponderous concrete blocks and hauled away loads of earth, and a crowd of picturesque figures were busy about the dam. Some wore dirty white cotton and ragged crimson sashes; the dark limbs of others projected from garments of vivid color. Dick drove the men as hard as he was able. They worked well, chattering and laughing, in the early morning, and there was much to be done, because Oliva’s dismissal had made a difference.

The men flagged, as the sun got higher, and at length Dick sat down in the thin shade of a tree. The light was now intense, the curving dam gleamed a dazzling pearly-gray through a quivering radiance, and the water that had gathered behind it shone like molten silver. One could imagine that the pools reflected heat as well as light. Dick’s eyes ached, and for a few minutes he let them rest upon the glossy, green jungle, and the belts of cultivation down the hill.

Then he roused himself, because he must watch what was going on. The great blocks must be properly fitted into place, and one could not trust the dusky laborers to use the care that was needed; besides, they were getting slack, and the fresh blocks the locomotives brought would soon begin to accumulate. Since this would mean extra handling and consequent expense, the track must be kept clear. Still, Dick wished noon would come, for his head ached badly and he felt the heat as he had not felt it before.

It was hard to force himself to begin again after the short mid-day rest, but he became a little more vigorous as the sun sank and the shadow of the black cordillera lengthened across the valley. After dinner, when he lounged on the veranda, the headache and lassitude returned, and he listened to Jake’s talk vacantly and soon went to bed. He knew he was not well, but while malarial fever was not unusual in the neighborhood people seldom took it in a virulent form, and as there was a good doctor at Santa Brigida he determined to consult him when he had occasion to visit the town. As it happened, a crane broke next day, and when evening came he set off to inquire if new castings could be made for it in the Spanish foundry. While he waited for an engine to take him down the line, Jake announced his intention of coming.

“I’ve never been round a Spanish town,” he said.

“You’re not going round a Spanish town now, if I can prevent it,” Dick rejoined. “However, I suppose I can’t order you off your father’s locomotive.”

Jake smiled. “You can resent my taking the line you hint at when I’ve done so, but I guess one must make allowances. You’re getting the fever badly, partner.”

“It’s the heat,” Dick answered in an apologetic tone. “Anyhow, Santa Brigida’s a dirty, uninteresting place.”

“I expect your ideas of what’s interesting are different from mine. Concrete’s all right in the daytime, though you can have too much of it then, but you want to please your eye and relax your brain at night.”

“I was afraid of something of the kind. But here’s the locomotive. Get up, if you’re coming.”

Dick was silent as the engine jolted down the track, for he was feverish and his companion’s talk irritated him. Besides, he had promised Ida Fuller to take care of the lad and knew something of the license that ruled in the city. Jake seemed to claim the supposititious privileges of the artistic temperament, and there were wine-shops, gamblers, pretty Creole girls with easy manners, and ragged desperados who carried knives, in Santa Brigida. In fact, it offered too many opportunities for romantic adventures. In consequence, Dick went to the Hotel Magellan, which they reached after walking from the end of the line, and took Jake into the bar.

“You had better stop here; I won’t be longer than I can help,” he said. “They’ll make you a rather nice iced drink of Canary tinto.”

“Just so,” Jake replied. “Tinto’s a thin, sour claret, isn’t it? In New York not long ago you could get iced buttermilk. Can’t say I was fond of it, but I reckon it’s as exhilarating as the other stuff.”

Dick left him with some misgivings and went about his business. It was eight o’clock in the evening and the foundry would be closed, but he knew where the manager lived and went to his house, which was situated in the older part of the city. He had not taken Jake because he had to pass some of the less reputable cafÉs and gambling dens and thought it undesirable that the lad should know where they were. The foundry manager was not at home, but a languishing young woman with a thickly powdered face, who called her mother before she conferred with Dick, told him where Don Tomas had gone, and Dick set off again in search of the cafÉ she named.

A half moon hung low in the clear sky, but, for the most part, its light only reached a short distance down the white and yellow fronts of the flat-topped houses. These got light and air from the central courtyard, or patio, and the outer walls were only pierced by one or two very narrow windows at some height from the ground. The openings were marked here and there by a faint glow from within, which was often broken by a shadowy female form leaning against the bars and speaking softly to another figure on the pavement below.

There were few street lamps, and in places the houses crowded in upon the narrow strip of gloom through which Dick picked his way with echoing steps. Most of the citizens were in the plaza, and the streets were quiet except for the measured beat of the surf and the distant music of the band. A smell of rancid oil and garlic, mingled with the strong perfumes Spanish women use, hung about the buildings, but now and then a puff of cooler air flowed through a dark opening and brought with it the keen freshness of the sea. Once the melancholy note of a guitar came down from a roof and somebody began to sing in a voice that quivered with fantastic tremolos.

Dick went carefully, keeping as far as possible away from the walls. In Santa Brigida, all white men were supposed to be rich, and the honesty of the darker part of its mixed population was open to doubt. Besides, he had learned that the fair-skinned Northerners were disliked. They brought money, which was needed, into the country, but they also brought machines and business methods that threatened to disturb the tranquillity the Latin half-breed enjoyed. The latter must be beaten in industrial strife and, exchanging independence for higher wages, become subject to a more vigorous, mercantile race. The half-breeds seemed to know this, and regarded the foreigners with jealous eyes. For all that, Dick carried no weapons. A pistol large enough to be of use was an awkward thing to hide, and he agreed with Bethune that to wear it ostentatiously was more likely to provoke than avoid attack.

Once he thought he was followed, but when he stopped to look round, the shadowy figure behind turned into a side street, and he presently found the man he was in search of in a quiet cafÉ. He spent some time explaining the drawings of the patterns that would be required before Don Tomas undertook to make the castings, and then languidly leaned back in his chair. His head had begun to ache again and he felt strangely limp and tired. The fever was returning, as it did at night, but he roused himself by and by and set off to visit the doctor.

On his way he passed the casino and, to his surprise, saw Jake coming down the steps. Dick frowned when they met.

“How did you get in?” he asked. “It’s the rule for somebody to put your name down on your first visit.”

“So it seemed,” said Jake. “There are, however, ways of getting over such difficulties, and a dollar goes some distance in this country; much farther, in fact, than it does in ours.”

“It’s some consolation to think you’ve had to pay for your amusement,” Dick answered sourly.

Jake smiled. “On the contrary, I found it profitable. You make a mistake that’s common with serious folks, by taking it for granted that a cheerful character marks a fool.” He put his hand in his pocket and brought it out filled with silver coin. “Say, what do you think of this?”

“Put the money back,” Dick said sharply, for there was a second-rate wine-shop not far off and a group of untidy half-breeds lounged about its front. Jake, however, took out another handful of silver.

“My luck was pretty good; I reckon it says something for me that I knew when to stop.”

He jingled the money as he passed the wine-shop, and Dick, looking back, thought one of the men inside got up, but nobody seemed to be following them when they turned into another street. This was the nearest way to the doctor’s, but it was dark and narrow, and Dick did not like its look.

“Keep in the middle,” he warned Jake.

They were near the end of the street when two men came out of an arch and waited for them.

“Have you a match, seÑor?” one who held a cigarette in his hand asked.

“No,” said Dick suspiciously. “Keep back!”

“But it is only a match we want,” said the other, and Jake stopped.

“What’s the matter with giving him one? Wait till I get my box.”

He gave it to the fellow, who struck a match, and after lighting his cigarette held it so that the faint illumination touched Dick’s face.

“Thanks, seÑor,” said the half-breed, who turned to his companion as he added softly in Castilian: “The other.”

Dick understood. It was not Jake but himself who was threatened; and he thought he knew why.

“Look out for that fellow, Jake!” he cried. “Get back to the wall!”

Jake, to Dick’s relief, did as he was told, but next moment another man ran out of the arch, and somebody in the darkness called out in Castilian. Dick thought he knew the voice; but the men were behind him now, and he turned to face them. The nearest had his hand at his ragged sash, and Dick saw that he must act before the long Spanish knife came out. He struck hard, leaning forward as he did so, and the man reeled back; but the other two closed with him, and although his knuckles jarred as a second blow got home, he felt a stinging pain high up in his side. His breathing suddenly got difficult, but as he staggered towards the wall he saw Jake dash his soft hat in the face of another antagonist and spring upon the fellow. There seemed to be four men round them and one was like Oliva, the contractor; but Dick’s sight was going and he had a fit of coughing that was horribly painful.

He heard Jake shout and footsteps farther up the street, and tried to lean against the house for support, but slipped and fell upon the pavement. He could neither see nor hear well, but made out that his assailants had slunk away and men were running towards Jake, who stood, calling for help, in the middle of the street. Shortly afterwards a group of dark figures gathered round and he heard confused voices. He thought Jake knelt down and tried to lift him, but this brought on a stab of burning pain and he knew nothing more.