"
"Is that so?" asked Kennedy. "I understood that the United States
government had forbidden the importation of the mescal plant and
its sale to the Indians under severe penalties."
"It has, sir," interposed Alvardo, who had joined us, "but still
the mescal cult grows secretly. For my part, I think it might be
more wise for your authorities to look to the whiskey and beer
that unscrupulous persons are selling. Senor Jameson," he added,
turning to me, "will you join us in a little cup of this
artificial paradise, as one of your English writers--Havelock
Ellis, I think--has appropriately called it?"
I glanced dubiously at Kennedy as Senora Mendez took one of the
little buttons out of the silver tray. Carefully paring the fuzzy
tuft of hairs off the top of it--it looked to me very much like
the tip of a cactus plant, which, indeed, it was--she rolled it
into a little pellet and placed it in her mouth, chewing it
slowly like a piece of chicle.
"Watch me; do just as I do," whispered Kennedy to me at a moment
when no one was looking.
The servant advanced towards us with the tray.
"The mescal plant," explained Alvardo, pointing at the little
discs, "grows precisely like these little buttons which you see
here. It is a species of cactus which rises only half an inch or
so from the ground.
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