“Now you’ll have to confess to a fib. You say one doesn’t say those things, when I, who am your father, said them only a moment ago, and you heard me.”
“I mean good people don’t. Decent people.”
“Now you’ll have to confess again, for calling your father indecent.—Terrible child!”
The child flushed, and tears rose to his eyes. There was silence for a while.
“So you don’t want to come to Jamiltepec?” said Ramón, to his boys.
“Yes!” said the elder boy, slowly. “I want to come and bathe in the lake, and have a boat. But—they say it is impossible.”
“Why?”
“They say you make yourself a peon, in your clothes.”—The boy was shy.
“They’re very nice clothes, you know. Nicer than those little breeches of yours.”
“They say, also, that you pretend to be the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl.”