I went in and found the house neat and not uncomfortable. The parlor
was furnished with cane-bottomed chairs, each of which was adorned
with a white crocheted tidy. The mantel over the fireplace had a
white crocheted cover; a marble-topped center table held a lamp, a
photograph album and several trinkets, each of which was set upon a
white crocheted mat. There was a cottage organ in a corner of the
room, and I noted that the lamp-racks upon it were covered with
white crocheted mats. There was a matting on the floor, but a
white crocheted carpet would not have been out of keeping. I made
arrangements with the landlady for my board and lodging; the amount
was, I think, three dollars and a half a week. She was a rather
fine-looking, stout, brown-skin woman of about forty years of age. Her
husband was a light-colored Cuban, a man about one half her size, and
one whose age could not be guessed from his appearance. He was small
in size, but a handsome black mustache and typical Spanish eyes
redeemed him from insignificance.

I was in time for breakfast, and at the table I had the opportunity
to see my fellow boarders. There were eight or ten of them. Two, as
I afterwards learned, were colored Americans. All of them were cigar
makers and worked in one of the large factories--cigar making is one
trade in which the color line is not drawn. The conversation was
carried on entirely in Spanish, and my ignorance of the language
subjected me more to alarm than embarrassment. I had never heard such
uproarious conversation; everybody talked at once, loud exclamations,
rolling "_carambas_," menacing gesticulations with knives, forks, and
spoons. I looked every moment for the clash of blows. One man was
emphasizing his remarks by flourishing a cup in his hand, seemingly
forgetful of the fact that it was nearly full of hot coffee. He ended