Money to Burn/Chapter 9

ACE to face with the unexpected physical action is man's first impulse; the art of attack and defense is merely the highly specialized expression of a primal instinct, and the Yorkshireman's philosophy is of primitive soundness: “A word and a blow, but the blow first.” Dan's arm was quicker than his tongue, but he drew it back just before striking.

“What are you doing at my door?” he demanded.

Intense malignity had been again written on the dwarf's face in the instant of falling into the bedroom; now his expression became servile. His eyes were dull and humble as he answered:

“Señor Medico wake up. Fernando Peña hear him move. Come to ask if shaving water.”

“I said I'd call.”

“Señor Medico want shaving water?”

“I'll shave after a while. Were you outside this door all night?”

“But no—but no!” Peña shook his head in honest denial. “Not when Señor Medico sleep.”

“So I don't need to be watched when I'm asleep? Well, there's some comfort in that. I'll go and see my patient as soon as I can jump into a few clothes. Can you tell me what sort of night he had?”

The hunchback seemed well informed of the doings of the house. He did not hesitate to admit and impart his knowledge of the patient. “Señor Tucker toss. He toss, but he not dead yet.”

“I see.” Dan scrutinized the man. There was plainly no particular desire in the fellow's mind that Tucker should live, though his devotion to his master would probably henceforth keep his temper in place. It was, Dan reflected, a dangerous sort of temper to maintain at too close quarters.

All through the devious passageways he watched for means of identifying the route. He did not wish this spying attendance. Another time, he thought, he might be able to find the patient without aid, although he was certain that once Peña doubled in order to befog him. What might possibly be the purpose of this circuitous procedure Dan did not then attempt to guess. It was enough that they reached the sick chamber at last.

Tucker, in his high bed, was now deserted by Luis. He seemed destined to be deserted by his nurses, but pain also had clearly left him. He was thin, Dan noted, not altogether from the severity of illness, and his cheek bones stood out high and narrow; his chin was pointed and his lips atremble. The mouth Dan called either weak or sullen, or both; and the eyes, of an unblinking pale gray, were not prepossessing. These things and one more, showing plain now in the glare of tropic day; out side the sheet lay two white inert hands, the tips of all except the little fingers somewhat stained, but the hands themselves delicate and slim. They were not the sort one would expect in a mechanical engineer on a sugar estate, and yet they were hands that obviously were constantly used, and with skill.

“How are you feeling this morning, Mr. Tucker?”

Dan smiled with professional cheerfulness, which, however, did not altogether succeed in concealing his extreme youth. Somehow, he could not feel wholly sympathetic toward this man; but Tucker was ill and neglected, and Stone meant to do his duty in any event and acquit himself honorably of his debt to his employer.

The man nodded slightly. It was as if he could not or dared not speak. The doctor bustled among his medicines, where Peña was beside him with ostentatious help.

Then, with the quick resolve of meeting guile with guile, Dan addressed the servant. “Fernando,” said he, peering into a pitcher, “this water is full of ants. Run downstairs and get me some fresh.”

To his amazement, the dwarf stared up dully but steadily—in refusal. “No.”

They looked full at each other in a moment's contest of wills. If Dan could not overcome the servant's antipathy to him, he must take a final course. Peña was too important a member of the household for him not to realize that, and, however much Don Ramon might order him to be friendly, the hunchback would remain lord of his own sentiments. He appeared to be lord of his own actions as well.

“If you don't follow the doctor's orders,” said Dan slowly, “this man may die. Shall I tell Don Ramon that that's what you want?”

Fernando spat.

Dan's anger rose. “You bring me the fresh water—at once—or I will throw up the case.”

“I go! I go!” Peña had acknowledged momentary loss, but it was not Dan; it was only the dwarf's fear of displeasing Ramon that had conquered him.

Dan watched him, shaking his shaggy head and mumbling all the length of the room, make the turn at the door—waited until the soft footfalls no longer sounded, then hurried back to his patient and leaned over him.

“Now,” said he, “quick—tell me what you were trying to say last night.”

Tucker's weak eyes were pathetic, but traveled doubtfully from the doctor toward the doorway, which, however, was hidden by the high foot of his bed.

“Don't worry. He's gone.” Dan hastened to give reassurance.

But, either from fear or prudence, the sick man, now gazing fixedly at the ceiling, would utter no sound. His lips began to shape themselves into unvocalized words. Dan watched, puzzled. Not the least whisper came, and he could rely on his sight alone for interpretation. It was only after considerable repetition that he made out, bit by bit:

“They want to get rid of me, but they daren't do it just yet. They need me a little longer. Look out for yourself, doctor. I can see you're not one of them, but”—here the patient's face showed the distress of desperation—“for God's sake get me away! I made only one mistake. I put out only one of our printings. That paper maker; he needed money—and I gave him—but what does that matter? Get me away! Get me away!”

There was no delirium here, however mystifying the phrases. At last the younger man's sympathy was aroused. He heard himself thoughtlessly reply in spoken words.

“Of all the damnable”

“The fresh water, señor.”

The servile tones were at his very elbow. The hunchback stood there, his thick lips grinning, his manner deliberately obsequious, as he proffered another pitcher.

Dan seized it. He looked down into the dull eyes of the servant, which, though telling nothing, nevertheless always held a challenge.

“Pitcher little way down hall, señor,” said Peña. “Luis maybe fill him. He all ready in hall. No ants now—nice, fresh water.”

Dan glanced quickly back toward the bed. Josiah Tucker had closed his eyes. Beneath an excessive pallor he looked exhausted and hopeless. But Peña's expression as Dan turned back was one of rage fighting against crafty repression.

How much had the hunchback observed? He was just tall enough to see the moving mouth. Had he arrived only when Dan spoke aloud, or had he been silently standing there—concealed by Stone's back, peeping beneath his elbow—during the difficult moments of translation? And, in the latter case, had he, too, been able to read the lips of the helpless Tucker, or, merely attending, had he correctly guessed their import?