were in his debt. And Gamacho, who tomorrow will be probably one of our high officials, is a stranger, too -- an isleno. He might have been a cargador on the O.S.N. wharf had he not (the posadero of Rincon is ready to swear it) murdered a pedlar in the woods and stolen his pack to begin life on. And do you think that Gamacho, then, would have ever become a hero with the democracy of this place, like our Capataz? Of course not. He isn't half the man. No; decidedly, I think that Nostromo is a fool.'

The doctor's talk was distasteful to the builder of railways. `It is impossible to argue that point,' he said, philosophically. `Each man has his gifts. You should have heard Gamacho haranguing his friends in the street. He has a howling voice, and he shouted like mad, lifting his clenched fist right above his head, and throwing his body half out of the window. At every pause the rabble below yelled, "Down with the Oligarchs! Viva la libertad!" Fuentes inside looked extremely miserable. You know, he is the brother of Jorge Fuentes, who has been Minister of the Interior for six months or so, some few years back. Of course, he has no conscience; but he is a man of birth and education -- at one time the director of the Customs of Cayta. That idiot-brute Gamacho fastened himself upon him with his following of the lowest rabble. His sickly fear of that ruffian was the most rejoicing sight imaginable.'

He got up and went to the door to look out towards the harbour. `All quiet,' he said; `I wonder if Sotillo really means to turn up here?'