He had purposely left his clothes
behind him, and the door of his room unlocked, but under his naked
left arm he carried the revolver.
He was a long time in his bath. When he returned to his chamber he
found his garments very nearly as he had left them. He smiled as
he crept into bed and tucked the netting under his thin mattress.
They could search him now, whenever they pleased, for the revolver
and its box of precious cartridges reposed on a duty beam over the
bathroom, where no one would ever think of looking.
During breakfast, and afterward throughout an aimless morning
stroll, O'Reilly felt watchful eyes upon him. When he returned to
his hotel he found Mr. Carbajal in the cafe concocting refrescos
for some military officers, who scanned the American with bold,
hostile glances. O'Reilly complained to the proprietor of a
toothache.
At once Mr. Carbajal was sympathetic; he was also admonitory,
blaming the affliction upon that bath of the previous evening.
Excessive bathing, he declared, was injurious, particularly in the
winter season; it opened one's pores, and it dried one's skin and
rendered one liable to the attacks of every disease. Heat?
Perspiration? Was it wise to resort to unnatural and artificial
means in order to rid oneself of a trifling annoyance? If
perspiration were injurious, nature would not have provided it.
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