V
It proved a cool city, however, both in climate and manners. Of the two, the former seemed the more kindly. If the air were chilly at morning or evening—either in summer or winter, wherein there is little variation—it was hot enough at mid-day to bring out the perspiration. But the manners remained constantly those of all large cities, even in Mexico.
There was no reason that they should be otherwise. After traveling, nevertheless, through smaller towns, where natives looked upon a newcomer with interest and other Americans immediately introduced themselves, we found that we were regarding the entire population of the capital as downright discourteous. Americans upon the street were not merely indifferent but suspicious. When we attempted to stop one to inquire the way to the National Museum, he would duck aside and hurry away before we could speak. We had about decided to punch the next fellow-countryman we met, and were looking for a small one, when we discovered the reason for American distrust.
Every fourth gringo in town seemed to be broke and in need of alms.
Two clean-cut youngsters, lured here evidently by the illusion that any one could make his fortune in Latin America, came into an American restaurant where we lunched, and begged the proprietor for a job washing dishes.
“For God’s sake, man, we’re hungry! And we’re willing to work! All we ask is our meals, and five pesos a week to cover room rent—not a penny more!”
The proprietor shook his head.
“I’m sorry for them,” he said, as the youths went out, “but there’s too many. They use up all your sympathy.”
Another youth stopped us in the park.
“I’m not a regular bum,” he pleaded. “I came down here because a fellow I knew invited me. He was a Mexican, and he worked beside me in the auto factory up at Detroit. He was always telling me what a fine country this was. After he went home, he kept writing to me about how when I came to Mexico his house would be my house. I thought he meant it. And he kept saying there were lots of jobs. I didn’t know it was their habit to say nice things like that just to please you. I came down here three weeks ago, and there were no jobs—or else Mexicans took them on a salary that wouldn’t support an American—and when I looked up my friend, he kept saying that his house was my house, but I’ve never seen the inside of it, and since the first day I haven’t seen him. I’ve spent my last cent, and I’m up against it.”
But among the down and out were many less deserving, with stories just as good. Some were draft-evaders that had come to Mexico during the War, and had been unable to return. Others were professional vagabonds who had gravitated southward to enjoy the privileges of a country that recognized vagrancy as a legitimate profession. At first, like most new arrivals touched by the pitiful sight of a fellow-countryman in misfortune in a foreign land, we gave liberally. But within a few days, we grew hardened, and like the Old-Timers, we ducked away at the very approach of a strange American, even though he merely wished to ask his way to the National Museum.
For companionship, we confined ourselves to Old Barlow, who occupied the hotel room next to ours, and who drifted into our quarters now and then to gratify an Old Resident’s love of spinning yarns.
He was somewhat of a pessimist. He liked Mexico but he always carried a gun. A gray-haired man, walking with a slight limp, he claimed to have been present at every earthquake, revolution, and dog-fight that had ever transpired in Mexico or Central America, and when once started on a recital, each murder suggested another.
“Best thing I ever did see was the duel Cash Bradley fought. Cash didn’t know nothing about swords, so when this geezer challenged him, he went up to ask General Agramonte for advice. Great old war-horse was Agramonte! Says he, ‘You don’t need to know nothing about swords—except one little trick of swordsmanship I’m going to teach you. When you first start, the seconds will count three, and at each count you bring down your sword and clash it politely with the other guy’s sword by way of salute. Well, on the count of three, you just accidentally miss the other fellow’s sword and salute him politely in the neck.’ And believe me, boys, that little feat of swordsmanship just saved Cash Bradley’s life.”
Then he would puff at his pipe, and muse a while.
“Great old war-horse, Agramonte! I remember when he had a run-in with President Huerta, the bird Carranza chased out. Huerta invited him up to the Palace for tea, and when Agramonte was about to leave, he says to him, ‘I’ve got forty soldiers on the staircase, waiting to shoot you on your way home.’ Agramonte didn’t blink an eyelash. He just shoved his own gun into Huerta’s ribs, and answers, ‘Then you’ll come with me, and if one soldier raises a gun, you’ll die first.’ They walked down the staircase, arm in arm, and kissed each other good-by at the door, and not a soldier fired a shot.”
Then he would muse again, rapturously, as though recalling pleasant memories.
“Huerta was some war-horse himself. He used to be a general in Madero’s army, until he suddenly walked into the Palace, with his army behind him, and told Madero to quit. Huerta was always a great stickler for constitutionality, so he wanted Madero to sign a proper resignation. And Madero wouldn’t resign. Huerta heated the poker and started to tickle him with it. You could see the blood running out of Madero’s eyes, but he was stubborn as a mule, and he just kept saying, ‘I’m the rightful president of Mexico!’ Finally Huerta had to shoot him. But he was a great stickler for constitutionality, so he put Madero’s body in a coach, and took it out for a ride and had his troops fire a volley on the coach; then he told the world that Madero was shot by his own men while fleeing the country. Some one had to take the presidency then, so Huerta took it. Great stickler for constitutionality was Huerta!”
Another puff at his pipe.
“Carranza don’t do his own shooting, but he’s got plenty of generals to do it for him. If I was you boys, and had written some nasty things about the Old Gent, like you say you have, I wouldn’t wait for no interview. I’d take the next train to Vera Cruz, and catch a boat.”