"It won't call for the nationalization of the mines, at any rate," Smith added.
He made the mistake of translating his remark for Joaquin Rios. He might just as well have dropped a match into a keg of gunpowder. The wax mustaches under the purpling nose of ex-Senator Rios began quivering even before he unleashed an avalanche of ringing livid paragraphs on the subject. His eyes blind to the cold stares of José Fernandez, he unlimbered his heaviest verbal artillery, pounded the table until the glasses rattled, pointed accusing fingers at every corner of the room, and otherwise managed rather effectively to end the luncheon. Fernandez fairly had to drag him out of the Embassy to cool him down.
"Fine fellows," Skidmore said to Hall when they were gone. "Best of the lot down here."
"Sure," Hall said. "I've known all about Fernandez for years."
"He's a great guy, Hall. Publishes one of the best newspapers on the continent. As a matter of cold fact, old man, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he won the—well, he might be in for a rather high honor."
"I know. The Cabot Prize."
"Who told you?"
Hall looked at Smith, who was growing uncomfortable. "I can't remember," he said. "But it's hard to keep such a secret in San Hermano."
"Well, I'll be damned," the Ambassador laughed. "It was nice to see you again, old man. Drop in any time when you have a problem."
"Problems in San Hermano? Things seem to be pretty much under control, I'd say."