Strictly Business | Page 9

injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.
Therefore let us have the moral first and be done with it. All is not gold
that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the stopper in his bottle of
testing acid.
Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by
George the Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of that
quarter, and this is their shibboleth: "'Nit,' says I to Frohman, 'you can't
touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,' and out I walks."
Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two streets
where a Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical
warmth in the nipping North. The centre of life in this precinct is "El
Refugio," a caf'e and restaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from
the South. Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of
Central America and the ireful islands of the Western Indies flit the
cloaked and sombreroed se~nores, who are scattered like burning lava
by the political eruptions of their several countries.
Hither they come to lay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit funds,
to enlist filibusterers, to smuggle out arms and ammunitions, to play the
game at long taw. In El Refugio, they find the atmosphere in which
they thrive.
In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to the
palate of the man from Capricorn or Cancer. Altruism must halt the
story thus long. On, diner, weary of the culinary subterfuges of the
Gallic chef, hie thee to El Refugio! There only will you find a
fish--bluefish, shad or pompano from the Gulf-- baked after the Spanish
method. Tomatoes give it color, individuality and soul; chili colorado
bestows upon it zest, originality and fervor; unknown herbs furnish
piquancy and mystery, and--but its crowning glory deserves a new
sentence. Around it, above it, beneath it, in its vicinity--but never in it--
hovers an ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and ddelicate that only
the Society for Psychical Research could note its origin. Do not say that
garlic is in the fish at El Refugio. It is not otherwise than as if the spirit
of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss that lingers in the

parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in life, "by hopeless
fancy feigned on lips that are for others." And then, when Conchito, the
waiter, brings you a plate of brown frijoles and carafe of wine that has
never stood still between Oporto and El Refugio--ah, Dios!
One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55 Gen.
Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena. The
General was between a claybank and bay in complexion, had a 42-inch
waist and stood 5 feet 4 with his Du Barry heels. He had the mustache
of a shooting-gallery proprietor, he wore the full dress of a Texas
congressman and had the important aspect of an uninstructed delegate.
Gen. Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to inquire
his way to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he reached that
neighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red- brick house that
read, "Hotel Espa~nol." In the window was a card in Spanish, "Aqui se
habla Espa~nol." The General entered, sure of a congenial port.
In the cozy office was Mrs. O'Brien, the proprietress. She had
blond--oh, unimpeachably blond hair. For the rest she was amiability,
and ran largely to inches around. Gen. Falcon brushed the floor with his
broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of Spanish, the syllables
sounding like firecrackers gently popping their way down the string of
a bunch.
"Spanish or Dago?" asked Mrs. O'Brien, pleasantly.
"I am a Colombian, madam," said the General, proudly. "I speak the
Spanish. The advisment in your window say the Spanish he is spoken
here. How is that?"
"Well, you've been speaking it, ain't you?" said the madam. "I'm sure I
can't."
At the Hotel Espa~nol General Falcon engaged rooms and established
himself. At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to view the wonders
of this roaring city of the North. As he walked he thought of the
wonderful golden hair of Mme. O'Brien. "It is here," said the General to
himself, no doubt in his own language, "that one shall find the most
beautiful se~noras in the world. I have not in my Colombia viewed
among our beauties one so fair. But no! It is not for the General Falcon
to think of beauty. It is my country that claims my devotion."
At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General became
involved. The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset

him against a pushcart laden with oranges. A cab driver missed him an
inch