ents; Panama hats, buff-coloured country shoes; tin spoons,
preserves, and French brandy. The innkeeper or shopkeeper of this
out-of-the-world store is a native of Barcelona--by name Boy--who
pronounces Spanish with a very broad Catalan accent. We travellers are
his sole customers at present, and as we require only hot coffee at a
medio the cup, aguardiente brandy at a creole penny the nip, a handful
of cigars, and a packet of paper cigarettes, the profits derived from
our patronage cannot be very great.

We are off once more, not to halt again until a cane field stops the
way. The growing cane, with its bamboo-shaped fruit, and waving leaf of
long grass, crops up to the right and left of us for miles, and
terminates in the 'ingenio' or sugar-works. The entrance to the
proprietor's grounds is by a five-barred gate and a wigwam, both of
which have been designed and constructed by an aged and decrepit
African who occupies the latter. He crawls out of his domicile as we
approach, and his meagre form is barely covered by a grimy blanket
fastened to his girdle by means of a strip of dried palm bark. To all
our questions his solitary response is 'Si, snor, miamo,' being exactly
the creole Spanish for the creole English 'Yes, massa.' Having by this
means satisfied ourselves that 'miamo,' his massa, is at home and
willing to receive us, we proceed until we hear the clicking of a whip,
and observe indistinctly a row of naked blacks, who are engaged in some
earthy occupation. A big bronze-faced man, in a white canvas suit and a
pancake Panama hat, stands behind them and holds a long knotted whip,
which he occasionally applies to their backs as a gentle reminder that
time represents so many Spanish doubloons. This is the 'mayoral,' or
overseer. He seems to pride himself upon his masterly touch with the
thong, for when no black skin forms an excuse for the practice of his
skill, he flicks at nothing, to keep his hand in. The sorrow of this
sight is greatly augmented by the dead silence; for whenever the
chastising weapon descends, the sufferer is mute.

The lawful owner of these lashed shoulders and of a couple of hundred
more, has turned out to greet us. His unshaved countenance wears a
sleepy expression, but the stump of a lighted cigar is already in his
mouth. At a given signal, a couple of small slaves appear, with cups of
hot coffee and a tray of long home-made cigars. 'Candela!' Mine host
invokes fire, and a little mulatto g