"Right, my friend," he exclaimed. _"Mate_ is the best thing in
this country. As for the people, they are not worth cursing."
"How can you say such a thing," I returned. "You are a foreigner, I
suppose, but your wife is surely an Oriental."
The Juno of the grease-pot smiled and threw a ladleful of tallow on
the fire to make it roar; possibly this was meant for applause.
He waved his hand deprecatingly, the bradawl used for his work in it.
"True, friend, she is," he replied. "Women, like horned cattle, are
much the same all the world over. They have their value wherever you
find them--America, Europe, Asia. We know it. I spoke of men."
"You scarcely do women justice--
_La mujer es un angel del cielo,"_
I returned, quoting the old Spanish song.
He barked out a short little laugh.
"That does very well to sing to a guitar," he said.
"Talking of guitars," spoke the woman, addressing me for the first
time; "while we are waiting for the _mate,_ perhaps you will sing
us a ballad. The guitar is lying just behind you."
"Senora, I do not play on it," I answered. "An Englishman goes forth
into the world without that desire, common to people of other nations,
of making himself agreeable to those he may encounter on his way; this
is why he does not learn to perform on musical instruments."
The little man stared at me; then, deliberately disencumbering himself
of surcingle, threads, and implements, he got up, advanced to me, and
held out his hand.
Pages:
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262