"
"I'm not a tourist."
"Indeed? Now that is interesting." Mr. Carbajal seated himself on
the edge of the bed, where he could look into O'Reilly's
traveling-bag. "Not a tourist, not a traveling-man. Now what could
possibly bring you to Cuba?"
O'Reilly eyed his inquisitor gravely; a subtle melancholy darkened
his agreeable countenance. "I travel for my health," said he.
"You--Health--!" Carbajal's frame began to heave; his bulging
abdomen oscillated as if shaken by some hidden hand. "Good! Ha!
There's another joke for you."
"I'm a sick man," O'Reilly insisted, hollowly.
"From what malady do you suffer?" inquired the hotel-keeper.
"Rheumatism."
"Rheumatism? That is no more than a pain in the joints, a
stiffness--"
"There! I knew it!" O'Reilly exclaimed in triumph. Rising, he
seized his host's moist hands and shook them violently. "You give
me courage! You make a new man of me. These doctors enjoy a
fellow's agony; they'd like to bury him. They'd never recommend
this climate. No! 'Pain in the joints,' you say, 'stiffness.' That
proves the abominable affliction is practically unknown here. I
thank you, sir."
"You don't look sick," mumbled Carbajal. "Not like the other
American."
"What other American?"
"A peculiar fellow. He went on to Puerto Principe. What a cough!
And he was as thin as a wire.
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