Ностромо

           InaloudandyouthfultonehehopedthatthisMonterowasgoingtobelickedonceforallanddonewith.Therewasnosayingwhatwouldhappentotherailwayiftherevolutiongottheupperhand.Perhapsitwouldhavetobeabandoned.ItwouldnotbethefirstrailwaygonetopotinCostaguana.“Youknow,it’soneoftheirso-callednationalthings,”heranon,wrinklinguphisnoseasifthewordhadasuspiciousflavourtohisprofoundexperienceofSouthAmericanaffairs.And,ofcourse,hechattedwithanimation,ithadbeensuchanimmensepieceofluckforhimathisagetogetappointedonthestaff“ofabigthinglikethat—don’tyouknow.”Itwouldgivehimthepulloveralotofchapsallthroughlife,heasserted.“Therefore—downwithMontero!Mrs.Gould.”Hisartlessgrindisappearedslowlybeforetheunanimousgravityofthefacesturneduponhimfromthecarriage;onlythat“oldchap,”DonJose,presentingamotionless,waxyprofile,staredstraightonasifdeaf.ScarfedidnotknowtheAvellanosverywell.Theydidnotgiveballs,andAntonianeverappearedataground-floorwindow,assomeotheryoungladiesusedtodoattendedbyelderwomen,tochatwiththecaballerosonhorsebackintheCalle.Thestaresofthesecreolesdidnotmattermuch;butwhatonearthhadcometoMrs.Gould?Shesaid,“Goon,Ignacio,”andgavehimaslowinclinationofthehead.Heheardashortlaughfromthatround-faced,Frenchifiedfellow.