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Updated: May 7, 2025
His name was Pedronez and his wife's Lucina. Then I asked how long they'd lived there. "One year, six months," he says, counting on his fingers. "Build the house?" "Si, senor. A noble house! A miracle!" "Ever dig a hole here?" "A hole! But why a hole? In the ground of the noble house! Ah, no! By no means!"
They seemed to think the hole was for them, and Monson meant to bury them in it, which had as reasonable a look as anything. Clyde's money was there still, lying no more than two feet from where Pedronez and Lucina had walked over it eighteen months, grubbing out a poor living. The brown bags were all rotted away and the coin was sticky with clay.
Monson roared again, to the fright of Pedronez and Lucina, who flattened herself against the wall. He went out and brought in the spade, and the bags. I guarded the door, and Monson dug where I pointed in the hard trodden earth of the floor. Pedronez and Lucina backed into corners and chattered crazy.
I laid a handful on the table, and told Pedronez to buy the tobacco of the others in the morning, but I didn't suppose he would. It seemed a hard sort of joke played by luck on the little Windward Islander, Clyde's money lying there so long, twenty-four inches from the soles of his feet. I remember how Pedronez clutched his throat and shrieked after us into the night.
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