IDLE DAYS 131 



have spent it : for my host is also an idler, only a 

 more accomplished one than I can ever hope to be. 



We read little; my companion has never learnt 

 letters, and I, less fortunate in that respect, hav- 

 ing only been able to discover one book in the 

 house, a Spanish Libro de Misa, beautifully 

 printed in red and black letters, and bound in 

 scarlet morocco. I take this book and read, until 

 he, tired of listening to prayers, however beauti- 

 ful, challenges me to a game of cards. For some 

 time we could not hit on anything to play for, 

 cigarettes being common property, but at length 

 we thought of stories, the loser of most games 

 during the evening to tell the other a story, as a 

 mild soporific, after retiring. My host invariably 

 won, which was not very strange, for he had been 

 a professional gambler most of his days, and 

 could deal himself the killing cards every time he 

 shuffled. More than once I caught him in the very 

 act, for he despised his antagonist and was care- 

 less, and lectured him on the immorality of cheat- 

 ing at cards, even when we were only playing for 

 love, or for something next door to it. My stric- 

 tures amused his Patagonian mind very much ; he 

 explained that what I called cheating was only a 

 superior kind of skill acquired by much study and 

 long practice ; so it happened that every night I 

 was compelled to draw on my memory or inven- 

 tion for stories to pay my losses. 



Only at night one feels the winter here, but in 

 September one knows that it has gone, though 



