“I’ll go back there to-morrow,” he grumbled aloud, “and knock the head off that comic-opera squab.  Running out and picking up perfect strangers, and shoving them into cold storage!”

But the kiss remained uppermost in his mind.  “I might have done that long ago,” he mused.  “She liked it, too.  She called me ‘Sam’ four times.  I’ll not go up that street again.  Too much scrapping.  Guess I’ll move down the other way.  Wonder what she meant by saying they were going to eat her!”

Tansey began to feel sleepy, but after a while he decided to move along again.  This time he ventured into the street to his left.  It ran level for a distance, and then dipped gently downward, opening into a vast, dim, barren space—­the old Military Plaza.  To his left, some hundred yards distant, he saw a cluster of flickering lights along the Plaza’s border.  He knew the locality at once.

Huddled within narrow confines were the remnants of the once-famous purveyors of the celebrated Mexican national cookery.  A few years before, their nightly encampments upon the historic Alamo Plaza, in the heart of the city, had been a carnival, a saturnalia that was renowned throughout the land.  Then the caterers numbered hundreds; the patrons thousands.  Drawn by the coquettish senoritas, the music of the weird Spanish minstrels, and the strange piquant Mexican dishes served at a hundred competing tables, crowds thronged the Alamo Plaza all night.  Travellers, rancheros, family parties, gay gasconading rounders, sightseers and prowlers of polyglot, owlish San Antone mingled there at the centre of the city’s fun and frolic.  The popping of corks, pistols, and questions; the glitter of eyes, jewels and daggers; the ring of laughter and coin—­these were the order of the night.

But now no longer.  To some half-dozen tents, fires, and tables had dwindled the picturesque festival, and these had been relegated to an ancient disused plaza.

Often had Tansey strolled down to these stands at night to partake of the delectable chili-con-carne, a dish evolved by the genius of Mexico, composed of delicate meats minced with aromatic herbs and the poignant chili colorado—­a compound full of singular flavour and a fiery zest delightful to the Southron’s palate.

The titillating odour of this concoction came now, on the breeze, to the nostrils of Tansey, awakening in him hunger for it.  As he turned in that direction he saw a carriage dash up to the Mexicans’ tents out of the gloom of the Plaza.  Some figures moved back and forward in the uncertain light of the lanterns, and then the carriage was driven swiftly away.

Tansey approached, and sat at one of the tables covered with gaudy oil-cloth.  Traffic was dull at the moment.  A few half-grown boys noisily fared at another table; the Mexicans hung listless and phlegmatic about their wares.  And it was still.  The night hum of the city crowded to the wall of dark buildings surrounding the Plaza, and subsided to an indefinite buzz through which sharply perforated the crackle of the languid fires and the rattle of fork and spoon.  A sedative wind blew from the southeast.  The starless firmament pressed down upon the earth like a leaden cover.