He examined his extra pair of khaki
trousers, and discovering a considerable surplus of cloth at each
inside seam, he took needle and thread and managed to sew the gun
in so that it hung close against the inside of his right leg when
he donned the garment. It felt queer and uncomfortable, but it did
not appear to be noticeable so long as he stood upright. With some
pride in his stratagem, he laid off his winter suit and changed
into lighter clothing.
Neuvitas was scorching under a midday sun when he came on deck.
Its low, square houses were glaring white; here and there a
splotch of vivid Cuban blue stood out; the rickety, worm-eaten
piling of its water-front resembled rows of rotten, snaggly teeth
smiling out of a chalky face mottled with unhealthy, artificial
spots of color. Gusts of wind from the shore brought feverish
odors, as if the city were sick and exhaled a tainted breath. But
beyond, the hills were clean and green, the fields were rich and
ripe. That was the Cuba which O'Reilly knew.
A Spanish transport, close by, was languidly discharging uniformed
troops; lighters of military supplies were being unloaded; the
sound of a bugle floated from the shore. Moored to the docks or
anchored in the harbor were several shallow-draught "tin-clad"
coast-patrol craft from the staffs of which streamed the red and
yellow bars of Spain.
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