O'Rourke, upon landing, had his box and three leather bags carried across the square to the ship-chandler's. He would look about before engaging a room, and see if the place contained enough local colour to pay for a stop-over. He fell, straightway, into easy and polite conversation with the owner of the store. From the busy pavement and dirty square outside arose odours that were not altogether foreign to his cosmopolitan nose. Three men greeted one another, and did business in English and Portuguese, speaking of the cane crop, the rate of exchange, the price of Newfoundland "fish," and of gales met with at sea. Bullock-carts creaked past in the aching sunlight, the mild-eyed beasts staggering with lowered heads. Soldiers in uncomfortable uniforms lounged about. Cripples exhibited their ugly misfortunes, and beggars made noisy supplication. O'Rourke decided that there was enough local colour to keep him, and, turning from the open door, contemplated the interior of the establishment. The place was dim and cool, and at the far back of it another door stood open, on a narrow cross-street. Cases of liquor, tobacco, tea, coffee, and condensed milk were piled high against the wall. Baskets of sweet potatoes and hens' eggs stood about. Upon shelves behind the counter samples of rope, canvas, and cotton cloth were exhibited. Highly coloured posters, advertising Scotch whiskey, brightened the gloom. The back part of the shop was furnished with a bar and two long tables. At one of the tables sat about a dozen men, each with a glass before him, and all laughing, talking, swearing, and yet keeping their eyes attentively fixed on one of their number, who shook a dice-box.