Limekiller!

Mr. Peterson smote the bar with his hand. “Exactly!” he cried. “No one! You not bloody damn fool, boy. You have good eye in you head. Why you see no one? Because no one can afford come here and drink, is why you see no one. People can scarce afford eat! Flour cost nine cent! Rice cost fifteen cent! Lard cost thirty-four cent! Brown sugar at nine cent and white sugar at eleven! D.D. milk twen-ty-one cent! And yet the tax going up, boy! The tax going up!“

A line stirred in Limekiller’s mind. “Yes — and, ‘Pretty soon rum going to cost fifteen cents,’” he repeated. Then had the feeling that (in that case) something was wrong with the change from his two- shillings piece. And with his having made this quotation.

“What you mean, ''fifteen cent’?” demanded Mr. Peterson, in a towering rage. Literally, in a towering rage; he had been slumped on his backless chair behind the bar, now stood up to his full height. and it was a height, too. “ Whattt? ‘Fif-teen-cent?’ You think this some damn dirty liquor booth off in the bush, boy? You think you got swampy,” referring to backwoods distilled goods, “in you glass? What 'fifteen cent?’ No such thing. You got pure Governor Morgan in you glass, boy, never cost less than one shilling, and pretty soon going to be thirty cent, boy: thir-ty-cent! And for what? For the Queen can powder her nose with the extra five penny, boy?” Et cetera. Et cetera.

Edwin Rodney Augustine Bickerstaff, Royal British Hidalgo Police (sitting bolt-upright in his crisp uniform beneath a half-length photograph of the Queen’s Own Majesty):

“Good afternoon, sir. May I help you, sir?”

“Uh. yes! I was wondering… uh… do you know if there are any North Americans in town?”

Police-sergeant Bickerstaff pondered the question, rubbed his long chin. “Any North Americans, you say sir?”

Limekiller felt obliged to define his terms. “Any Canadians or people from the States.”

Police-sergeant Bickerstaff nodded vigorously. “Ah, now I understand you, sir. Well. That would be a matter for the Immigration Officer, wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

“Why… I suppose. Is he in right now?” This was turning out to be more complex than he had imagined.

“Yes, sir. He win. Unofficially speaking, he is in. I am the police officer charged with the duties of Immigration Officer in the Mountains District, sir,”

“Well — ”

“Three to four, sir.”

Limekiller blinked. Begged his pardon. The police-sergeant smiled slightly. “Every evening from three to four, sir, pleased to execute the duties of Immigration Officer, sir. At the present time,” he glanced at the enormous clock on the wall, with just a touch of implied proof, “I am carrying out my official duties as Customs Officer. Have you anything to declare?'

And, So much for that suggestion, Limekiller thought, a feeling of having only slightly been saved from having made a fool of himself tangible in the form of something warmer than sunshine round about his face and neck.

The middle-aged woman at the Yohan Yahanoglu General Mdse. Establishment store sold him a small bar of Fry’s chocolate, miraculously unmelted. Jack asked, “Is there another hotel in town, besides the Grand?”

A touch of something like hauteur came over the still-handsome face of Sra. Yohanoglu. “Best you ahsk wan of the men,” she said. And. which one of the men? “Any men,” said she.

So. Out into the sun-baked street went lonely Limekiller. Not that lonely at the moment, though, to want to find where the local hookers hung out. Gone too far to turn back. And, besides, turn back to what?

The next place along the street which was open was the El Dorado Club and Dancing (its sign, slightly uneven, said).

Someone large and burly thumped in just before he did, leaned heavily on the bar, “How much, rum?” he demanded.

The barkeep, a ’Paniard, maybe only one-quarter Indian (most of the Spanish-speaking Hidalgans were more that that), gave a slight yawn at this sudden access of trade. “Still only wan dime,” he said. “Lahng as dees borrel lahst. When necessitate we broach nudder borrel, under new tox lah, iay! Pobrecito! Going be fifteen cent?'

“¡En el nornbre del Queen!” proclaimed the other new customer, making the sign of the cross, then gesturing for a glass to be splashed.

Limekiller made the same gesture.

“What you vex weed de Queen, varon?” the barkeeper asked, pouring two fingers of “clear” into each glass. “You got new road, meb-be ah beet bum-py, but new; you got new wing on hospital, you got new generator for give ahl night, electricity: whattt? You teenk you hahv ahl dees, ahn not pay ah new tox? No sotch teeng!”

“No me hace falta, ‘ahl dees,’ ” said the other customer. “Resido en el bush, where no hahv not-ting like dot.”