The dish was emptied, as Clayley observed, in a “squirrel’s jump.”

“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 José.

“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.”

“Qué 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&rsqu............