“Hey!” the foreigners would exclaim. Or, “Oh, look!” And, “Who does that belong to?”
“Belahng to Colonel Pygore,” a National of the country would reply. “But he not reside dere noew. Residing noew at Ho-tel Pel-i-cahn.“
The foreigners’ eyes, dazzled by the sun on the waters of the First (or Belinda) River as it disembogued into the Bay of Hidalgo, and totally captivated by the cool look of the spacious house in its surrounding greenery, would immediately be less weary and more alert. “Do you think it’s for rent?”
And the National would ponder and consider, then allow a smile to lighten his face. “We go timely to see heem. I ox heem fah you.” In King Town, the capital, Nationals are aware that foreigners have their own odd ways with pronouns, and might not understand such perfectly ordinary usage as, “Us go,” or “Me ox.”
“We old friend, Colonel Pygore ahn me. We good friend. Good teeng you ox me. Yes sah ahn yes mahm.”
The sun was now less strong, the streets less dusty, the possibility of shelter less remote. The foreigners felt now that, after all, their decision to come to British Hidalgo — so remote, so all but unknown, so (accordingly) confused with the Spanish-speaking Republic of Hidalgo — had after all been a right and good one. With tourists so few, surely here, here, they would after all find what they were looking for: decent housing at a decent price in a decent climate among decent people. And the National who was guiding them out of friendship alone and to keep them from falling into the hands of the rare but unscrupulous type of people who would not appreciate their friendship, — the National, catching the foreigners’ increased cheerfulness, would instantly growr more cheerful himself, and point out landmarks such as the Anglican and Roman Catholic and Turkish Orthodox cathedrals; and places where very good beer and very bad ladies were available. sometimes he would omit this last information if there were foreign females present; but not often, as he would have noticed how often this seemed to interest them as much as it did foreign men: though he wondered why. “But not noew. Becahs too orly.”
And so they would pass through the streets without sidewalks, go by the main market, cross the Swing Bridge, observe the Post Office and the Fire House with its three vintage engines and its twro fairly modern ones (the ones which actually answered the alarms) and such indispensable places as the shop and warehouse of Georgoglu who sold rum and Gonsales who sold coconuts and Flemington the plantains prince. And in between each building a flash of the sparkle of the water of the First (or Belinda) River, the sails of the cayes boats as the sails moved up or down the masts but seldom staying in place and full of the wind, as Belinda Harbor (or King Town Port) was right on the Bay. And old men offered for sale parched peanuts and old women haw'ked fried fish or “conks flitters” and small pickneys begged for one dime: the National would politely decline the offers (“Going just noew to Pelican Bar, Grahndy —”) and speak sternly to the beggingboys — “Why you no shame?” — the last word, sounding like “sheahhm,” producing, oddly, echoes of the Carolinas, or Ireland. And at least every other person would greet the National and be greeted by him and more people would smile at the foreigners than wouldn’t and no one at all would scowl, thus showing the desired absence of any hatred towards foreigners or other pale people.
“You seem to have many friends.”
“Oh yes mahm ahn sah. I no vex me heart weet hate no wahn.”
“Very good philosophy.”
And so theyr would come at last to the Hotel Pelican, an unusual four stories high with verandahs on all four sides of it, a large yard with children playing on the defeated grass and often an odd animal penned in a corner (an anteater or a tapir calf or a peccary, it might be), and, to one side, a two-story building joined to the hotel by an arcade: the words PELICAN BAR on a signboard. And here they would turn, through the dust of the dry season or the mud of the wet (“In this country,” Peter Py'gore sometimes said, though often he didn’t say anything, “the science of drainage has not only not been perfected, it hasn’t even been suspected.”), and enter the one room dim and cool, with its eternal aroma of beer and rum and limes and country yerba. Always, always, always: here the newly- arrived foreigners would turn in with whatever National they had found to help them. Sometimes it was one National and sometimes it was another.
But it really did not matter which one. Although Colonel Peter Pygore never would even rent his house, the National got at least a drink and a dollar or two for his pains and troubles, and the foreigners anyway had as good an introduction to Old British Hidalgo as they were ever likely to get: unless they had applied directly to one of the official offices, and this, somehow, few of them managed to do.
Limekiller’s introduction to the countrv had been similar, if not the same (in fact, it was not the same). For one thing, although he had noticed, and how could he have helped noticing? the Pygore Place, standing out as it did somewhat like Queen Victoria in a muumuu, or Oueen Liliuokilani in hoopskirts — a contradiction there, of course, for although Queen Liliuokilani had worn, at least sometime, a hoopskirt, it is as sure as anything can be sure that Oueen Victoria had never worn a muumuu: would she have been amused? not at all likely — Limekiller had been fairly content with noticing and observing it from the outside. He not only did not think of buying, he did not even think of renting, it. He thought of buying a boat, and while the story of how he came, finally, to buy one, may be told, it will not be told here.
Or, at any rate, not here and now.
And, for another thing, he had been younger than the other foreigners whose fairly typical introductions we have had described. And, also, he had been then alone.
So, then, there was Limekiller. Alone. With a boat. And, wondering, as wonder we must all, at least sometimes, what next?
Legally, a license was needed for any vessel to carry any number of passengers anywhere at all for any purpose at all within the waters of the colony; but this law had not always been enforced. In fact, Jack Limekiller had a very good idea that, like so many laws, it had never been meant to be enforced, it had been meant to be enforceable. To be sure, old Royal Governor Sir Samuel Stoniecroft had been very intent on enforcing it and had done his best to do so. But his reasons, whatever they may have been, had gone with him, first into retirement, and then into the grave; and, if they had not, they had gone into some musty muniments room in the basement of Somerset house or the Old Bailey or somewhere of the sort: and might be there yet, misfiled behind a mouldering file of indictments for, say, high treason by having had carnal knowledge of the favorite of the Prince of Wales during the War of the Roses. Only one licensee from the days of Governor Stoniecroft still survived, and that was old Captain Peter Kent: and he had lost his document during Hurrican Hephsibah, or perhaps it was Celina, he was not sure, and it did not bother him. No one would ever ask for it.
Thus it was: Nationals were never vexed to show evidence of a license. Very, very offensive foreigners might even find themselves suddenly deported for not having had one. Other kinds of foreigners, well, it all depended. And Jack Limekiller felt he could have slept more soundly if he could ever figure out a pattern as to what it all depended on. But he well knew that aliens in Hidalgo might well go mad trying to find patterns in a country which did not really feel the need of them.