"The old Englishman who has enough money to pay for a railway? He is
going off in an hour," remarked Nostromo, carelessly. "_Buon viaggio_,
then. I've guarded his bones all the way from the Entrada pass down to
the plain and into Sulaco, as though he had been my own father."

Old Giorgio only moved his head sideways absently. Nostromo pointed
after the Goulds' carriage, nearing the grass-grown gate in the old town
wall that was like a wall of matted jungle.

"And I have sat alone at night with my revolver in the Company's
warehouse time and again by the side of that other Englishman's heap of
silver, guarding it as though it had been my own."

Viola seemed lost in thought. "It is a great thing for me," he repeated
again, as if to himself.

"It is," agreed the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, calmly. "Listen,
Vecchio--go in and bring me, out a cigar, but don't look for it in my
room. There's nothing there."

Viola stepped into the cafe and came out directly, still absorbed in his
idea, and tendered him a cigar, mumbling thoughtfully in his moustache,
"Children growing up--and girls, too! Girls!" He sighed and fell silent.

"What, only one?" remarked Nostromo, looking down with a sort of comic
inquisitiveness at the unconscious old man. "No matter," he added, with
lofty negligence; "one is enough till another is wanted."

He lit it and let the match drop from his passive fingers. Giorgio Viola
looked up, and said abruptly--