“Knocked off cultivating to-day?” queried Crosby, lighting a fresh cigarette.

“The peons have,” said Banks; “it’s another saint’s day.  That’s the fourth in two weeks.  Leaves about two clear working days in each week, counting for the days off, when they’re getting over the effects of the others.  I tell you what, sir, the Catholic religion is not suited to a working civilization, or else the calendar ought to be overhauled and a lot of these saints put on the retired list.  It’s hard enough to have all the Apostles on your pay-roll, so to speak, but to have a lot of fellows run in on you as saints, and some of them not even men or women, but ideas, is piling up the agony!  I don’t wonder they call the place ‘All Saints.’  The only thing to do,” continued Banks severely, “is to open communication with the desert, and run in some of the heathen tribes outside.  I’ve made a proposition to the Council offering to take five hundred of them in the raw, unregenerate state, and turn ’em over after a year to the Church.  If I could get Hurlstone to do some log-rolling with that Padre, his friend, I might get the bill through.  But I’m always put off till to-morrow.  Everything here is ’Hasta manana; hasta manana,’ always.  I believe when the last trump is sounded, they’ll say, ‘Hasta manana.’  What are you doing?” he said, after a pause.

“Waiting for your ship,” answered Crosby sarcastically.

“Well, you can laugh, gentlemen—­but you won’t have to wait long.  According to my calculations that Mexican ship is about due now.  And I ain’t basing my figures on anything the Mexican Government is going to do, or any commercial speculation.  I’m reckoning on the Catholic Church.”

The two men languidly looked towards him.  Banks continued gravely,—­

“I made the proper inquiries, and I find that the stock of rosaries, scapularies, blessed candles, and other ecclesiastical goods, is running low.  I find that just at the nick of time a fresh supply always comes from the Bishop of Guadalajara, with instructions from the Church.  Now, gentlemen, my opinion is that the Church, and the Church only, knows the secret of the passage through the foggy channel, and keeps it to itself.  I look at this commercially, as a question of demand and supply.  Well, sir; the only real trader here at Todos Santos is the Church.”

“Then you don’t take in account the interests of Brimmer, Markham, and Keene,” said Brace.  “Do you suppose they’re doing nothing?”

“I don’t say they’re not; but you’re confounding interests with instincts.  They haven’t got the instinct to find this place, and all that they’ve done and are doing is blind calculation.  Just look at the facts.  As the filibuster who captured the Excelsior of course changed her name, her rig-out, and her flag, and even got up a false register for her, she’s as good as lost, as far as the world knows, until she lands at Quinquinambo.  Then supposing she’s found