to risk his skin, if folks
are going to have fish to eat. That somebody is me. Out to sea I go, as
I've always gone. And that's the end of that! And now, enough of this
whimpering business, what do you say, ma? Here's to _Flor de Mayo_!
Here's to 'Mayflower.' _Cristo!_ another mug, boys, on me, on me! Drink
her down, drink her down, till every mother's son of you is drunk. And
I'll feel insulted if they don't come down and get you to-night because
you can't walk home, and find you all rooting in the sand here like so
many grunting hogs!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE _MAYFLOWER_ PUTS TO SEA

Pascualo was on his way home from an afternoon in Valencia; but on
reaching the Glorieta, he stopped in front of the Old Customs House.

It was six o'clock. The sun was tinting the enormous front of the
building an orange gold, softening the colors of the greenish black
smudge that the rain had left on the mansard windows. The statue of
Charles II seemed to be melting into the mellow bluish transparency of
the light-filled atmosphere. Through the gratings drifted the hum of a
busy hive--voices calling, songs coming from a distance, the metallic
click of scissors as the workers picked them up or let them fall.

Out through the big entrance the girls from the nearest floors were
beginning to pour in animate throng--a horde of Indian shawls, a medley
of strong arms with sleeves rolled above the elbow, an army of
lunch-boxes slung over shoulders, a pitter-patter of feet, hopping in
short quick steps like sparrows, a hub-bub of good-nights, of greetings,
of parting gibes. The promenade for the guards, where a few drinking
fountains were the only obstructions, was one seething mass of feminine
youth.

The Rector, attracted by that curious riot of tobacco-girls, had paused
on the sidewalk across the street, among the newspaper stands. A strange
fascination it had for him, that moving mass of white handkerchiefs
drawn tightly over pretty foreheads! What a bedlam! A regiment of
females in mutiny! A nunnery gone mad! A meteor-shower of black eyes,
that stared at a man boldly, immodestly, stripping the clothes off one,
it seemed, with mocking effrontery!

And who was this coming in his direction? Roseta had spied him, and
deserting a party of girls, was tripping over toward him. Her companions
were to wait for friends from another floor, and they might be some
minutes in starting. Was he going home? All right! They would go
together! Ros