“Without doubt,” Rafael readily agreed. “The conquistadores slew many——” “And were the ancestors of those that survived,” Pedro completed for him and aroused a general laugh. “Just the same, almost would I give one of these pesos to know what is in that box.” “There is Ignacio,” Rafael greeted the entrance of a turnkey whose heavy eyes tokened he was just out of his siesta. “He was not paid to be honest. Come, Ignacio, relieve our curiosity by letting us know what is in the box.” “How should I know?” Ignacio demanded, blinking at the object of interest. “Only now have I awakened.” “You have not been paid to be honest, then?” Rafael asked. “Merciful Mother of God, who is the man who would pay me to be honest?” the turnkey demanded. “Then take the hatchet there and open the box,” Rafael drove his point home. “We may not, for as surely as Pedro is to share the two pesos with us, that surely have we been paid to be honest. Open the box, Ignacio, or we shall perish of our curiosity.” “We will look, we will only look,” Pedro muttered nervously, as the turnkey prized off a board with the blade of the hatchet. “Then we will close the box again and——Put your hand in, Ignacio. What is it you find?... eh? what does it feel like? Ah!” After pulling and tugging, Ignacio’s hand had reappeared, clutching a cardboard carton. “Remove it carefully, for it must be replaced,” the jailer cautioned. And when the wrappings of paper and tissue paper were removed, all eyes focused on a quart bottle of rye whiskey. “How excellently is it composed,” Pedro murmured in tones of awe. “It must be very good that such care be taken of it.” “It is Americano whiskey,” sighed a gendarme. “Once, only, have I drunk Americano whiskey. It was wonderful. Such was the courage of it, that I leaped into the bull-ring at Santos and faced a wild bull with my hands. It is true, the bull rolled me, but did I not leap into the ring?” Pedro took the bottle and prepared to knock its neck off. “Hold!” cried Rafael. “You were paid to be honest.” “By a man who was not himself honest,” came the retort. “The stuff is contraband. It has never paid duty. The old man was in possession of smuggled goods. Let us now gratefully and with clear conscience invest ourselves in its possession. We will confiscate it. We will destroy it.” Not waiting for the bottle to pass, Ignacio and Rafael unwrapped fresh ones and broke off the necks. “Three stars—most excellent,” Pedro Zurita orated in a pause, pointing to the trade mark. “You see, all Gringo whiskey is good. One star shows that it is very good; two stars that it is excellent; three stars that it is superb, the best, and better than beyond that. Ah, I know. The Gringos are strong on strong drink. No pulque for them.” “And four stars?” queried Ignacio, his voice husky from the liquor, the moisture glistening in his eyes. “Four stars? Friend Ignacio, four stars would be either sudden death or translation into paradise.”