Page 47 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

times a tiny gold ring in the lobe of the ear, the aristocracy
of the railway works listened to him, turning away from
their cards or dominoes. Here and there a fair-haired
Basque studied his hand meantime, waiting without pro-
test. No native of Costaguana intruded there. This was the
Italian stronghold. Even the Sulaco policemen on a night
patrol let their horses pace softly by, bending low in the sad-
dle to glance through the window at the heads in a fog of
smoke; and the drone of old Giorgio’s declamatory narra-
tive seemed to sink behind them into the plain. Only now
and then the assistant of the chief of police, some broad-
faced, brown little gentleman, with a great deal of Indian
in him, would put in an appearance. Leaving his man out-
side with the horses he advanced with a confident, sly smile,
and without a word up to the long trestle table. He point-
ed to one of the bottles on the shelf; Giorgio, thrusting his
pipe into his mouth abruptly, served him in person. Noth-
ing would be heard but the slight jingle of the spurs. His
glass emptied, he would take a leisurely, scrutinizing look
all round the room, go out, and ride away slowly, circling
towards the town.

Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard