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In this second instalment of the account of his travels in the West Indies Harry Franck covers the fascinating, old-new city of Havana. Its people, customs, sports, and buildings are discussed in the author's inimitable manner.

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CONSTANT procession of motors, their mufflers wide open, went hiccoughing out the Carlos III Boulevard toward the Havana ball-park. The entrance-gate, at which they brought up with a snort and a sudden, bronco-like halt that all but jerked their passengers to their feet, was a seething hubbub. Ticket-speculators, renters of cushions, venders of everything that can be consumed on a summer afternoon, were bellowing their wares into the ears of the fanáticos who scrimmaged about the ticket-window. Men a trifle seedy in appearance wandered back and forth holding up half a dozen tiny envelops, arranged in fanshape, which they were evidently trying to sell or rent. The pink entradas I finally succeeded in snatching carried us as far as the grand stand, where another maelstrom was surging about the chicken-wire wicket behind which a henminded youth was dispensing permissions to sit down. He would have been more successful in the undertaking if he had not needed to thumb over a hundred or more seat-coupons reserved for special friends of the management or of himself every time he sought to serve a mere spectator.

however, of the front-row places we obtained except that, in the free-for-all Spanish fashion, all the riffraff of venders crowded the foot-rests that were supposedly reserved for front-row occupants. Nine nimble Cubans were scattered about the flat expanse of Almendares Park, backed by Príncipe Hill, with its crown of university buildings. Royal palms waved their plumes languidly in the ocean breeze. A huge Cuban flag undulated beyond the outfielders. A score of vultures circled lazily overhead, as if awaiting a chance to pounce upon the "dead ones" which the wrathful "fans" announced every time a player failed to live up to their hopes. On a bench in the shade sat all but one of the invading team, our own "Pirates" from the Smoky City. The missing one was swinging his club alertly at the home plate, his eyes glued on the Cuban zurdo, or "southpaw," who had just begun his contortions in the middle of the diamond. The scene itself was familiar enough, yet it seemed out of place in this tropical setting. It was like coming upon a picture one had known since childhood, to find it inclosed in a strange new frame.

I reached for my kodak, then reWe certainly could not complain, strained the impulse. A camera is of

little use at a Cuban ball game. Only a recording phonograph could catch its chief novelties. An uproar as incessant as that of a rolling-mill drowned every individual sound. It was not merely the venders of "El escor oficial," of sandwiches, lottery-tickets, cigars, cigarettes, bottled beer by the basketful, who created the hubbub; the spectators themselves made most of it. The long, two-story grand stand behind us was packed with Cubans of every shade from ebony black to the pasty white of the tropics, and every man of them seemed to be shouting at the top of his welltrained lungs. I say "man" advisedly, for with the exception of Rachel there were just three women present, and they had the hangdog air of culprits. But scores of men were on their feet, screaming at their neighbors and waving their hands wildly in the air.

"Which do you like best, base-ball or bull-fights?" I shouted to my neighbor on the left. He was every inch a Cuban, by birth, environment, point of view, in his very gestures, and he spoke not a word of English. Generations of Spanish ancestry were plainly visible through his grayish features; I happened to know that he had applauded many a torero in the days before the rule of Spain and "the bulls" had been banished together. Yet he answered instantly:

"Base-ball by far; and so do all Cubans."

But base-ball, strictly speaking, is not what the Cuban enjoys most. It is rather the gambling that goes with it. Like every sport of the Spanish-speaking race, with the single exception of bullfighting, base-ball to the great majority is merely a pretext for betting. The throng behind us was everywhere waving handfuls of money, real American money, for Cuba has none of her own larger than the silver dollar. Small wonder the bills are always ragged and worn and half obliterated, for they are constantly passing, like crumpled waste-paper, from one sweaty hand to another. The Platt Amendment showed incomplete knowledge of Cuban conditions when it decreed the use of American money on the island; it should have gone further and ordered the bills destined for Cuba

to be made of linoleum. Bets passed at the speed of sleight-of-hand performances. The fanáticos bet on every swing of the batter's club, on every ball that rose into the air, on whether or not a runner would reach the next base, on how many fouls the inning. would produce. Most of the wagers passed so quickly that there was no time for the actual exchange of money. A flip of the fingers or a nod of the head sufficed to arrange the deal. There were no dividing lines either of color or distance. Full-fledged Africans exchanged wagers with men of pure Spanish blood.

Caba

listic signs passed between the grand stand and the sort of royal box high above. Across the field the crowded sol, as the Cuban calls the unshaded bleachers, in the vocabulary of the bullring, was engaged in the same moneywaving turmoil. The curb market of New York is slow, noiseless, and phlegmatic compared with a ball-game in Havana.

The game itself was little different from one at home. from one at home. The Cuban players varied widely in color, from the jetblack third baseman to a short-stop of rice-powder complexion. Their playing was of high order, quite as "fast" as the average teams of our big leagues. Cubans hold several world championships in sports requiring a high degree of skill and swiftness. The umpire in his protective paraphernalia looked quite like his fellows of the North, but behind his mask he was a rich mahogany brown. His official speech was English, but when a dispute arose he changed quickly to voluble Spanish. The "bucaneros," as the present-day pirates who had descended upon the Cuban coast were best known locally, won the game on this occasion; but the day before they had not scored a run.

Base-ball-commonly

pronounced "bahseh-bahl" throughout the islandhas won a firm foothold in Cuba. Those familiar with Spanish can find constant amusement in Havana's sporting pages. "Fans" quite unfamiliar with the tongue would experience no great difficulty in catching the drift of the Cuban reporter, though it would be Greek to a Spaniard speaking no base-ball, as a brief example will demonstrate:

EL HABANA DEJO EN BLANCO
A LOS PIRATAS

José del Carmen Rodríguez realizó varios doubleplays sensacionales

BRILLANTE PITCHING DE

TUERO

El catcher rojo, Miguel Angel González, cerró con doble llave la segunda base a los corredores americanos

THE visitor whose picture of Havana is still that of the drowsy tropical city of our school-books

is due for a shock. He will be most surprised, perhaps, to find the place swarming with automobiles, like an open honey-pot with flies. First of all there is the ubiquitous Ford. A local paragrapher asserts that "a Havanese would rather die than walk four blocks." There are several perfectly good reasons for this preference. The heat of Cuba is far less oppressive than that of our most Northern States in mid-summer. Indeed, it is seldom unpleasant; but the slightest

ceeded in slamming the door really shut, there you are at Perez's zaguan.

Fords scurry by thousands through the streets of Havana day and night, ever ready to pick up a passenger or two and set them down again in any part of the business section for a mere twentycent piece a peseta in Cuban parlance. More expensive cars are now and then seen for hire; by dint of sleuth-like observation I did at last discover one Ford that was confined to the labor of carry

Officers of the Cuban army

The

physical exertion quickly bathes the body in perspiration, and nowhere is a wilted collar worse form than in Havana. Moreover, one must be exceedingly nimble-footed to trust to the prehistoric means of transportation. The custom of always riding has left no rights to the pedestrian in the Cuban capital. chances of being run down are excellent, and the result is apt to be not merely broken ribs, but a bill for damages to the machine. Hence, the expression "cojemos un For' " is synonymous with going a journey, however short, anywhere within the city. Your Havanese friend never says, "Let 's stroll around and see Perez," but always, "Let's catch a Ford," and by the time you have suc

ing its owner. But those are the exceptions that prove the rule, and the rule is that the instant you catch sight of the familiar plebeian features of a "flivver" you know, even without waiting to see the hospitable "Se Alquila" ("Rents Itself") on the wind-shield, that you need walk no farther, whatever your sex, complexion, or previous condition of pedestrianism. They are particularly suited to the narrow streets that the Spaniard, in his Arabic avoidance of the sun, bequeathed the Cuban capital.

There is many a corner in the business section which larger cars can turn only by backing or by mounting one of the scanty sidewalks. The closed taxi of the North, too, would be as much out of place in Havana as overcoats at a Fourth of July celebration. A few of the horse carriages of olden days still offer their services; but as neither driver, carriage, nor horse seem to have been groomed or fed since the war of independence, even those in no haste are apt to think twice or thrice, and finally put their trust in gasolene. Hence the Ford has taken charge of Havana, like an army of occupation.

Unfortunately, a Ford and a Cuban chauffeur make a bad combination.

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The native temperament is quick-witted, but it is scantily gifted with patience. In the hands of a seeker after pesetas a "flivver" becomes a prancing, dancing steed, a snorting charger that knows no fear and yields to no rival. Apparently some Cuban Burbank has succeeded in crossing the laggard of our Northern highways with the kangaroo. The whisThe whisper of your destination in the driver's ear is followed by a leap that leaves the adjoining façades a mere blur upon the retina.

The newspapers run a daily column for those who have been "Ford-ed" to hospitals or cemeteries. What are a few casualties a day in a city of nearly half a million, with prolific tendencies? There are voluminous traffic and speed rules, but he would be a friendless fellow who could not find a compadre with sufficient political power to "fix it up." Death corners-bill-boards or streethugging house-walls, from behind which he may dart without warning- are the joy of the Cuban chauffeur. Courtesy in personal intercourse stands on a high plane in Havana, but automobile politeness has not yet reached the stage of consideration for others. Traffic policemen, soldierly fellows widely varied in complexion, looking like bandsmen in their blue denim uniforms, are efficient, and accustomed to be obeyed; but they cannot be everywhere at once, and the automobile is. They confine their efforts, therefore, to a few seething corners, and humanity trusts to its own lucky star in the noman's-lands between.

in the kiosk facing Morro Castle and the harbor entrance, an endless procession of seven-passenger motors files up and down the wide Prado and along the sea-washed Malecón, two, or at most three, haughty beings, not infrequently with kinky hair, lolling in every capacious tonneau. Liveried chauffeurs are the almost universal rule. The caballero who drives his own car would arouse the wonder, possibly the scorn, of his fellow-citizens; once and once only did we see a woman at the wheel.

The cost of a car in Havana is from twenty to thirty per cent. higher than in the States, which supplies virtually all of them. A dollar pays for two gallons of gasolene instead of four. Licenses are a serious item, particularly to private owners in Havana, for the fee depends on the use to which the car is put. Fords for hire carry a white tag with black figures and pay $12.50 a year. Private cars bear a pink chapa at a cost of $62.50. Tags with blue figures announce the occupant a government official or or a physician. Then, every driver must be supplied with a personal license, at a cost of $25. In theory that

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Cuban boys engrossed in a game of base-ball outside the great Spanish-built cárcel, or prison, facing Havana harbor

The private machines alone would give Havana a busy appearance. All day long and far into the night the big central plaza is completely fenced in by splendid cars parked compactly ends to curb. Toward sunset, especially on the days when a military band plays the retreta

is all, except a day or two of waiting in line at the municipal license bureau. In practice there are many little political wheels to be oiled if one would see the car free to go its way the same year it is purchased.

Once the visitor has learned to dis

tinguish the tag that announces government ownership, he will be astounded to note its extraordinary prevalence in Havana. Even Washington was never like this. Government property means public ownership indeed in Cuba. If one may believe the newspapers of the Liberal party, the "outs" under the present administration, the explanation is simple. "Every government employee," they shriek, "down to the last post-office clerk who is in personal favor, has his own private car, free of cost; not only that, but he may use it to give his babies an airing, to carry his cook to market, or to take the future novio of his daughter on a joy ride."

THE new-comer's impressions of Havana will depend largely upon his previous travels. If this is his first contact with the Iberian or the Latin-American civilization, he will find the Cuban capital of great interest. If he is familiar with the cities of old Spain, particularly if he has already seen her farthest-flung descendants, such as Bogotá, Quito, or La Paz, he will probably call Havana "tame.' The most incorrigible traveler will certainly not consider a visit to this most accessible of foreign capitals as time wasted. But his chief amusement will be, in all likelihood, that of tracing the curious dovetailing of Spanish and American influences which make up its present-day aspect.

Both by situation and history the capital of Cuba is a natural place for this intermingling of two essentially different civilizations, but the mixture is more like that of oil and water than of two related elements. The ways of Spain and of America-by which, of course, I mean the United States-are recognizable in every block of Havana, yet there has been but slight blending together, however close the contact.

Immigrants from old Spain tramp the streets all day under their strings of garlic, or jingle the cymbals that mean sweetmeats for sale to all Spanish-speaking children. Venders of lottery-tickets sing their numbers in every public gathering-place. On Saturdays a long procession of beggars of both sexes file through the stores and offices demanding almost as a right the cent each which

ancient Iberian custom allots them. The places where men gather are wideopen cafés without front walls, rather than the hidden dens of the North. Havana's cooking, her modes of greeting and parting, her patience with individual nuisances, her very table manners, are Spanish. Like all Spanish America, her sons and daughters are all highly proficient in the use of the toothpick; like them, they are exceedingly courteous in the forms of social intercourse, irrespective of class. As in Spain, life increases in its intensity with sunset: babies have no fixed hour of retirement; midnight is everywhere the "shank of the evening"; lovers are sternly separated by iron bars, or their soft nothings strictly censored by evervigilant duennas.

The very Government cannot shake off the habits of its forebears, despite the tutelage of a more practical race. Public office is more apt than not to be considered a legitimate source of personal gain. As in Spain, a general amnesty is ever smiling hopefully at imprisoned malefactors. The Spanish tendency to forgive crime, combined with the interrelationship of miscreants and the powers that be, have not merely abolished, in practice, all capital punishment; it tends to release evil-doers long before they have found time to repent and change their ways. Men who shoot down in cold blood-and this they do even in the heart of Havana-have only to prove that the deed was done "in the heat of the moment" to have their punishment reduced to a mere fraction of that for stealing a mule. The pardoning power is wielded with such Castilian generosity that the genial editor of Havana's American newspaper wrathfully suggests the "loosing of all our distinguished assassins," that the enormous cárcel facing the harbor entrance may be replaced by one of the hotels sadly needed to house Havana's "distinguished visitors."

Amid all this the island capital is deeply marked, too, with the influence of what Latin-America calls "the Colossus of the North." One sees it in the strenuous pace of business, in the manners and methods of commerce. The dignified lethargy of Spain has

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