doorstep at three in the morning; four o'clock parties with conversation like the weak over-sweetened tea; hedging respectability, the eternal narrowness of the persistent provincial.
'Perhaps,' I added.
'Well,' Hornbeam said. 'The only thing to do with life is to live it, you know. Shall we have a last one?' I passed him the bottle. 'We'll be in B.A. to-morrow,' he added more cheerfully. 'You can have some fun there.'
'Everything's on the top line here since they had the purity campaign,' the Third said. 'Now it's as clean as Blackpool. Pity.'
We were lying off the big, white, flat city of Buenos Aires, lines of tall, angular buildings running down to the clean waterfront.
'It's pretty nice here in the New Port,' the Third went on.
'Where do we go?' I asked.
'Down by the meat works.'
Two hours later the
'Smells like a farm, don't it?' Easter remarked, as we were drawing alongside. 'Don't 'arf get a lot of flies down here. Thick as coppers on a racecourse, they are.'
'So this is where the beef comes from?'
'That's it. They walk in one end and half an hour later they slides out in a tin. Smart, these boys are.'
Our reception was the same as in Santos, except that everyone spoke Spanish. The same functionaries hurried aboard, made for the Mate's cabin, and drank the Mate's gin, from which the business of the ship seemed inseparable. But Hornbeam was determined for once, to go ashore.
'I've only had a couple all day,' he said proudly to me. 'Look at the bottle for yourself. I'm going to take you lads on a treat tonight. See you about ten.'
'I'll hold you to that.'
'Word of honour, Doc.'
Hornbeam kept his promise. When Trail, Archer, and myself met him in his cabin he was glowing but not extinguished.
'Just a quick one before we leave,' he said, unclipping the cap of another gin bottle. 'It's all on me to-night, boys. I've got plenty of pesos.'
'Where did you land them from?' Archer asked.
Hornbeam winked.
'The Mate's got to have a few perks,' he explained. 'Small present from the stevedores for giving them the pleasure of our custom. Also a token from the chandlers for the honour of providing us with deck stores. Strictly against Company regs., of course. Oh, I've got about'-he pulled some notes from his pocket-'about a thousand pesos.'
'That's forty quid,' Trail said reverently.
'Nothing but the best to-night!' Hornbeam continued. 'Drink up, and we'll hit the town.'
'This is the Boca,' Hornbeam explained, as we walked over the railway tracks towards the gawky German gantry bridge. 'One of the toughest spots in South America. A bos'n I sailed with once got beaten up about here. Left him only his shoes. He was a big chap, too.'
'I wish they wouldn't put ships in such insalubrious districts,' I said. 'It's like living in the slums.'
'They reckon the slums are good enough for sailors, I suppose.'
To reach the town we climbed into a small boat and were rowed across the slimy river towards the Boca's main street.
'Hard work finding a taxi in B.A. these days,' Trail said. 'We'd better climb in a colectivo.'
'A quick one in old Mother Whitehead's first,' Archer insisted. 'After all, it's known to every Liverpool fireman since steam came in.'
We had a couple of drinks described guardedly as Special Cocktails, and ate bits of chopped meat, nuts, mussels, cheese, and olives from the small plates the citizens of Buenos Aires expect to be handed with their drinks.
'On me,' Hornbeam said firmly, pulling out a fifty-peso note. 'Now let's go down town and have a steak.'
We went to the broad, bright Avenida Corrientes, the Broadway of B.A. In one of the grill rooms we sat down and ate steaks three inches thick.
'Nothing like nourishment,' Hornbeam observed. 'I'm going to have another of these. How about you, Doc?'
I shook my head, as my mouth was too full to speak.
'You'll want it in a few weeks' time when you're treating yourself to a nice spaghetti on toast. How about a bottle of Argentine wine? It's not bad. All on me, you blokes.'
We rose uneasily from the table when Hornbeam paid the bill. By now his already generous feelings towards the evening were accentuated by heavy feeding.
'I'm going to show you boys the town,' he said handsomely. 'Everything's my treat. Where shall we go to?'
'How about El Nidito?' Archer suggested. 'Or L'Atelier?'
'There's a joint I used to know round the corner,' Hornbeam said, scratching his forehead. 'Little redhead in there plays the guitar.'
He was delighted to find the bar was still there, though, reasonably enough, the redhead wasn't. It was a small, dim place with a band playing sambas in the corner and a tall girl caressing a microphone not much thinner than herself.
'Lovely grub!' Hornbeam said with relish. 'What's it to be? Scotch?'
There was no Scotch but they gave us the locally distilled whisky, which tasted like an old-fashioned carminative mixture. Trail got into earnest conversation with the girl behind the bar, who came from Lytham St. Anne's, and I sat wondering what the whisky was doing to my gastric lining.
'I've had this place,' Hornbeam said impatiently after a few minutes. 'Let's move on.'
'But we've only just arrived.'
'It's too quiet. Come on, blokes. It's my party, so I can take it anywhere.'
We went to a good many bars. They all offered the same-darkness, sambas, local whisky, and a girl behind the bar who came from some spot comparable to Lytham.
'It's half-past one,' I said to Archer later. 'Doesn't anyone go to sleep in B.A.?'
'Things are only beginning. They go on like this all night.'
'They must be a tougher race than we are. Apart from the hours, they seem to put up with their own whisky.'
Hornbeam was seized with a final inspiration.
'Let's go to the Saratoga, boys,' he announced.
'That's a posh do,' Trail told him dubiously. 'It's an expensive joint, particularly at this hour of the night.'
'Only the best is good enough for us,' Hornbeam insisted. 'Saratoga next stop. I want to see the dancing girls.'
We found a cab and drove down the street to the Saratoga. It was a class above the bars and night clubs we had been to-a small silk-lined place with two bands, a tiny dance floor, and a stage. Hornbeam strode in and demanded a table at the front.
'This is more like it!' he said contentedly. 'I'm fed up with slumming.'
He ordered some champagne.
I looked around me and saw it was certainly more fortunate in its clientele than the other places we had visited. The tone was marred only by our party, in which Hornbeam was now leaning back in his chair, clapping his hands, and demanding 'Bring on the fat women!'
'There aren't any here, are there?' I asked Archer.
'You wait, Doc,' he said. 'Three blokes can't sit down alone anywhere south of Panama without something turning up.'
