"Gods, thou'rt a worried cook!—for a cook with a fortune in hand."
"Ah!" sighed Pedro. "Crescentem sequitur cura pecuniam—Horace, Cristoval. Meaneth, care followeth upon increasing riches. Stew me—"
"Oh, Madre! Have done with thy plaints. Now be still whilst I give thee a message to Rava."
"God bless her!" said Pedro, and after a pause, "I listen. But make it not over long, and prithee, adapt its terms to the grossness of my texture. No endearments, Cristoval, and no poetry!"
Cristoval blushed. "No, no!" he said quickly. "It will be short, and suited to thy decorous taste, count upon it."
"Then I'll compass it. But as well put sugar-lumps and lollipops in a mess of boiled cabbage as to fill me with blandiments for recitation. I'm no troubadour, Cristoval. Bear that in mind."
"No fear, thou Spartan cook!" growled Cristoval, with a trace of embarrassment. "I intend it all to be prose."
By the time his message ended, Pedro's hamaca and escort were waiting. In parting the cook said earnestly: "Now, Cristoval, in the name of all the names of all the saints on the calendar, have a care for thyself! Thou'rt as prone to misadventure as an unweaned calf. Remember, thou hast one to be anxious for thee besides myself—and relatives! Dost know how many, since thine adoption?"
"Thou meanest—"
"Thy foster-brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, and what-not—dost know how many?"