Grand Canary by A. J. Cronin Page B

to the Canteras Bay. I’ve just been talkin’ to the captain. It’s the gilt on the gingerbread all right. There’s bathin’ there and a little resstrong where ye can grub. I’m telling ye there’s a strand of yellow sand would drive ye crazy with delight.’
    The spectacle of himself being driven crazy with delight by a beach of yellow sand drew a shadowy smile to Harvey’s face. But strangely he said:
    â€˜All right! We’ll go then, Jimmy.’
    Corcoran grinned all over his battered face.
    â€˜Be the holy – if ye’d said no, I’d have slaughtered ye. I’ve got important business to tend to in the afternoon. Private and personal ye’ll understand, But all this mornin’ ye belong to me.’
    They went out of the cabin into the liquid sunlight, crossed the gangplank, and walked down the dusty mole. Strutting along with thumbs in both arm-holes and a toothpick between his lips, Corcoran assumed proprietary rights over the harbour, deplored the indolence of the natives, philosophised upon the women, purchased a bunch of violets for his buttonhole from a crumpled old woman, donated a pinch of snuff to a fly-infested beggar, and finally drew up before a disreputable one-horse tartana.
    â€˜Aha!’ he exclaimed. ‘Here’s the ticket for soup, fella. The horse can stand up and the carriage has wheels.’ He turned to the driver. ‘How much drive Las Canteras, bucko?’
    The driver made with his shoulders a gesture indicative of extreme unworthiness and extended four yellow finger-nails.
    â€˜Four English shilling, señor.’
    â€˜Four English tomatoes! It’s too much. I’ll give ye two peseta and a pinch of snuff.’
    â€˜No, no, señor. Much beautiful tartana. Plenty quick.’
    â€˜Ah! Plenty quick me foot.’
    The driver burst into a flow of Spanish, making little piteous grimaces of entreaty.
    â€˜What does he say?’ asked Corcoran, scratching his head, ‘I’m slow at the lingo.’
    Harvey answered calmly:
    â€˜He says that he knows you well. That you are the most arrant humbug that ever breathed. That you have never knocked Smiler Burge over the ropes. That Smiler Burge nearly killed you with one swift blow. He says that you are ugly, old, and that you do not speak the truth. He says further that his wife is dying, that his ten children are dying, that he himself will die of a broken heart if you do not pay him four shillings for the hire of his lovely tartana.’
    Jimmy thrust back his cap until it lay upon his collar.
    â€˜We’ll give him a couple of shillin’, then,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Two English shillin’, kiddo.’
    The driver’s face split in a dazzling smile. With the air of a grandee he flung open the rickety door, leaped upon the box, and flourished his conquest to the world. Two English shillings! It was exactly five times his legitimate fare.
    â€˜That’s the way to handle them boys,’ said Jimmy out of the corner of his mouth. ‘’Tis the business instinct. If ye don’t watch out they’ll swindle ye hollow.’ And he lay back expansively in his seat as they bumped down the rutted street.

Chapter Ten
    Mary Fielding had come to the Playa de las Canteras. She, too, had heard from Renton of the beauty of this little-known shore, and now, in her wet green bathing-suit, she lay flat upon the sun-bleached sand, letting its soft warmth creep into her. Little drops of sea-water still glistened upon her white legs. Her body, moulded firmly by the waves, held a vibrating life. The curve of her small breast was lovely as a flower, graceful as a swallow’s flight. Her eyes were closed, as though to shutter the exquisite abandon of her mood; yet she could see it all, the lovely, lovely scene. The gracious sweep of yellow sand; the water bluer than the sky; the foaming whiteness of the breakers cresting in thunder