“So? What may it be, an octopus or a mule?”
“Almost as bad as either. It is a turkey buzzard.”
“Ah, yes; they were probably just out of turkey buzzards. Oh, well, I’ll get the hang of the language before I leave Cuba.”
“Undoubtedly. It is easy of acquisition. You have, I assume, provided yourself with a phrase-book.”
“A magnificent affair. It contains every possible phrase except the ones I have occasion to use.”
The two finish their repast about the same time, and as they stroll out upon the veranda to enjoy the long, strong cigar that inevitably follows a Cuban breakfast the senor remarks:
“You are an American, I judge.”
“New York,” is the terse response.
“Have you been in Cuba long?”
“About two hours.”