Ностромо

           Thehorsemanhammeredwiththebuttofaheavyrevolveratthedoorsoflowpulperias,ofobscenelean-toshedsslopingagainstthetumble-downpieceofanoblewall,atthewoodensidesofdwellingssoflimsythatthesoundofsnoresandsleepymutterswithincouldbeheardinthepausesofthethunderingclatterofhisblows.Hecalledoutmen’snamesmenacinglyfromthesaddle,once,twice.Thedrowsyanswers—grumpy,conciliating,savage,jocular,ordeprecating—cameoutintothesilentdarknessinwhichthehorsemansatstill,andpresentlyadarkfigurewouldflitoutcoughinginthestillair.Sometimesalow-tonedwomancriedthroughthewindow-holesoftly,“He’scomingdirectly,senor,”andthehorsemanwaitedsilentonamotionlesshorse.Butifperchancehehadtodismount,then,afterawhile,fromthedoorofthathovelorofthatpulperia,withaferociousscuffleandstifledimprecations,acargadorwouldflyoutheadfirstandhandsabroad,tosprawlundertheforelegsofthesilver-greymare,whoonlyprickedforwardhersharplittleears.Shewasusedtothatwork;andtheman,pickinghimselfup,wouldwalkawayhastilyfromNostromo’srevolver,reelingalittlealongthestreetandsnarlinglowcurses.AtsunriseCaptainMitchell,comingoutanxiouslyinhisnightattireontothewoodenbalconyrunningthewholelengthoftheO.S.N.