“Don Jose! Don Jose!” they shouted cheerfully, with that peculiar upward inflection by which the Spanish-American gives a warmth to his salutation not suggested by the words themselves. “El Presidente de Colombia! Viva Don Jose! Baja los Yankees!”
To all of which Don Jose, one long thin hand thrust stiffly between the breast buttons of his coat, listened in dignified silence, inwardly gratified by these boisterous visitors.
“Bueno, bueno,” he said in a high querulous voice; “I am very glad to see you, my friends. This is a great honor. But, what can I do for you?”
“Send us to Panama!” bawled Pedro, acting as spokesman for his men.
“Dear me!” exclaimed the old man, enjoying the situation and ignoring its political consequences. “Panama is far off—and why should I send such good citizens away from Bogota?”
“Por la Patria! Por la Patria! To fight the Yankees!”
“The Yankees? But why——”
“They have stolen Panama. They are pigs!”
“What a people!” he exclaimed, nonplussed. “I am sorry for that. Well, if I send you, what will you do?”