"Be my sowl! it ates purty well, black as it is," said Chane, looking
ruefully into the empty vessel. "It's got a worse complaint than the
colour, didn't yez fetch us a thrifle more of it, my darlint boy?" he
added, squinting up at Jose.
"_No entiende_," (Don't understand), said the Mexican, shaking his head.
"No in tin days!" cried Chane, mistaking the "_no entiende_" for a
phrase of broken English, to which, indeed, its pronunciation somewhat
assimilates it. "Och! git out wid you! Bad luck to yer picther! In
tin days it's Murtagh Chane that'll ayther be takin' his tay in
purgathory or atin' betther than black banes in some other part of the
world."
"_No entiende_," repeated the Mexican as before.
"Tin days, indade! Sure we'd be did wid hunger in half the time. We
want the banes _now_."
"_Que quiere_?" (What do you want?) asked the Mexican, speaking to
Raoul, who was by this time convulsed with laughter.
"Phwhat's that he sez, Raowl?" inquired Chane sharply.
"He says he don't understand you."
"Thin spake to him yerself, Raowl. Till him we want more banes, and a
few more ov thim pancakes, if he plazes."
Raoul translated the Irishman's request.
"_No hay_" (There are none), answered the Mexican, shaking his
forefinger in front of his nose.
"No I--is that phwhat ye say, my darlint? Well, iv yez won't go
yerself, sind somebody else; it's all the same thing, so yez bring us
the ateables."
"_No entiende_" said the man, with the same shake of the head.
"Oh! there agin with your tin days--but it's no use; yez understand me
well enough, but yez don't want to bring the banes."
"He tells you there is no more," said Raoul.
"Oh! the desavin' Judas! and five hundred ov thim grazers atin' over
beyant there. No more banes! oh, the lie!"
"_Frijoles--no hay_," said the Mexican, guessing at the purport of
Chane's remarks.
"Fray holeys!" repeated Chane, imitating the Mexican's pronunciation of
the word "frijoles". "Och! git out wid your fray holeys! There isn't
the size of a flay of holiness about the place. Git out!"
Raoul, and indeed all of us except the Irishman himself, were bursting
with laughter.
"I'm chokin'," said the latter, after a pause; "ask him for wather,
Raowl--sure he can't deny that, with that purty little sthrame boilin'
up undher our noses, as clear as the potteen of Ennishowen."
Raoul asked for water, which we all needed. Our throats were as dry as
charcoal. The Mexican made a sign to one of the women, who shortly came
up with an earthen jar filled with water.
"Give it first to the captin, misthress," said Chane, pointing to me;
"sarve all ayqually, but respict rank."
The woman understood the sign, and handed me the jar. I drank
copiously, passing it to my comrades, Clayley and Raoul. Chane at
length took the jar; but instead of drinking immediately, as might have
been expected, he set it between his knees and looked quizzically up at
the woman.
"I say, my little darlint," said he, winking, and touching her lightly
under the ribs with his outstretched palm, "my little _moochacha_--
that's what they call thim--isn't it, Raowl?"
"_Muchacha_? oh yes!"
"Well, thin, my purty little _moochacha_, cudn't yez?--ye know what I
mane--cudn't yez? Och! ye know well enough--only a little--jist a
mouthful to take the cowld taste aff the wather."
"_No entiende_," said the woman, smiling good-naturedly at Chane's
comical gestures.
"Och, the plague! there's that tin days agin. Talk to her, Raowl. Tell
her what I mane."
Raoul translated his comrade's wishes.
"Tell her, Raowl, I've got no money, becase I have been rabbed, de ye
see? but I'll give her ayther of these saints for the smallest thrifle
of agwardent;" and he pulled the images out of his jacket as he spoke.
The woman, seeing these, bent forward with an exclamation; and,
recognising the crucifix, with the images of the saint and Virgin,
dropped upon her knees and kissed them devoutly, uttering some words in
a language half Spanish, half Aztec.
Rising up, she looked kindly at Chane, exclaiming, "_Bueno Catolico_!"
She then tossed the rebozo over her left shoulder, and hurried off
across the yard.
"De yez think, Raowl, she's gone after the licker?"
"I am sure of it," answered the Frenchman.
In a few minutes the woman returned, and, drawing a small flask out of
the folds of her rebozo, handed it to Chane.