Dick Gets a Warning

On the evening of one pay-day, Dick took a short cut through the
half-breed quarter of Santa Brigida. As not infrequently happens in old
Spanish cities, this unsavory neighborhood surrounded the cathedral and
corresponded in character with the localities known in western America as
"across the track." Indeed, a Castilian proverb bluntly plays upon the
juxtaposition of vice and bells.

Ancient houses rose above the dark and narrow street. Flakes of plaster
had fallen from their blank walls, the archways that pierced them were
foul and strewn with refuse, and a sour smell of decay and garbage
tainted the stagnant air. Here and there a grossly fat, slatternly woman
leaned upon the rails of an outside balcony; negroes, Chinamen, and
half-breeds passed along the broken pavements; and the dirty,
open-fronted wine-shops, where swarms of flies hovered about the tables,
were filled with loungers of different shades of color.

By and by Dick noticed a man in clean white duck on the opposite side of
the street. He was a short distance in front, but his carriage and the
fit of his clothes indicated that he was a white man and probably an
American, and Dick slackened his pace. He imagined that the other would
sooner not be found in that neighborhood if he happened to be an
acquaintance. The fellow, however, presently crossed the street, and when
he stopped and looked about, Dick, meeting him face to face, saw with
some surprise that it was Kemp, the fireman, who had shown him an
opportunity of escaping from the steamer that took them South.