Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard
fostered by Captain Mitchell's absurd pride in his foreman, the varied use made of his handiness, and the appreciative grunts and nods of the silent old Viola, to whose exalted sentiments every sort of faithfulness appealed greatly.
The capataz of the Sulaco cargadores had lived in splendor and publicity up to the very moment, as it were, when he took charge of the lighter containing the treasure in silver ingots.
The last act he had performed in Sulaco was in complete harmony with his vanity, and as such perfectly genuine. He had given his last quarter-dollar to an old woman moaning with the grief and fatigue of a dismal search under the arch of the ancient gate. Performed in obscurity and without witnesses, it had still the characteristics of splendor and publicity, and was in strict keeping with his reputation. But this awakening, in solitude but for the watchful vulture, among the ruins of the fort, had no such characteristics. His first confused feeling was exactly this that it was not in keeping. It was more like the end of things. The necessity of living concealed somehow, for God knows how long, which assailed him on his return to consciousness, made everything that had gone before for years appear vain and foolish, like a flattering dream come suddenly to an end.
He climbed the crumbling slope of the rampart and, putting aside the bushes, looked upon the harbor. He saw a couple of ships at anchor upon the sheet of water reflecting the last gleams of light, and Sotillo's steamer moored to the jetty. And behind the pale, long front of the custom-house there appeared the extent of the
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