Savage Coast by Muriel Rukeyser Page B

drew out his wallet, thumbed through it, and laid a fifty-peseta note in Peter’s beret.
    They were startled. “Oh, no,” said Peter, flustered.
    â€œNever mind.” The Swiss’s face did not move.
    â€œTHE SWISS IS good,” said Helen, “He gets more and more like the lion for the Swiss Guards.”
    â€œHe does!” said Peter. “But those two bitches are beginning to get me.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Helen. “The picture of the green one reading Problems of the Spanish Revolution was worth a lot of annoyance. How do you want to do this?” She was very glad of the activity.
    â€œLet’s split them for language, and then you take men and I’ll take women. I’m all right at meetings; I’m not sure about trains.” He laughed.
    There were three men in the next compartment, busy reading Gringoire . * Helen tried in French. They talked among themselves a minute, and Peter shook his beret. One of them slapped down two duros.
    â€œThat’s as close to fascism as we can afford to get,” said Peter, outside.
    â€œOh, no,” said Helen. “You’ve been talking to leftists. They’ll go on reading Gringoire , but they’re human.”
    â€œYou’ve been in England,” Peter retorted.
    â€œLet’s ask the English,” she said suddenly. “They are decent, and they’ve got the League of Nations man with them.”
    The Belgian woman was just leaving the English compartment.
    â€œI’m better now,” she answered Helen. “I’ll be all right, I think. It’s only the big guns.” She hurried down the train, blowing her nose softly.
    Peter opened the door and leaned against it. The Spaniard’s long face looked up mildly. “Good evening?” His graying sideburns added meekness and courtesy to his expression.
    â€œWe have a letter to the town, from the train—” Peter began.
    â€œYes, we hope’d you’d translate it for us, if you approve. We’re going through the train with it.”
    â€œ Through the train !” repeated Drew.
    The lady from South America smiled at Helen. “Perfectlygroomed,” Peter had said. Her mouth moved. “Oh, yes,” she said. “But give it to them tonight; at least they’ll know we’re not against them. I’ll sleep better. She held her wrist against her temple, and the light caught her bracelet.
    â€œDo give it to them tonight, by all means,” the Spaniard advised gently. “It is a very polite gesture; it will be our . . . guarantee for the night.” He waved at the open window. “We are perfectly exposed here, you realize.”
    Helen spoke aside to young Mrs. Drew. “Is he really from the League of Nations?”
    The Spaniard looked up before she could answer.
    â€œWhat an idea!” he said. “No! League of Nations! I am a professor at the University of Madrid.”
    â€œIf I were from the League, I might be able to put a call through,” he remarked wistfully. “As it is, my family is waiting for me to come for them . . . But this,” he said, tapping the sheet of paper, “this is a very politic gesture. It will at least insure us a quiet night.”
    â€œWe’ll have guards—” Drew looked at the professor for confirmation.
    â€œIndeed yes,” the professor granted. “The mayor has promised.”
    â€œThey’ll be armed peasants, of course, who’ve never handled a gun before,” Drew said. “But they’re probably the best persons to have on the platform. It’s really decent of them to be so considerate—the letter’s right—whether the consideration means anything or not.” He was very hopeless looking. His silk mustache was stuck on to the face of a young, worried boy.
    The professor was translating rapidly, writing in pencil under the English letter.
    â€œThere!” he said,