A man had walked up behind me. He was a stranger—a tall man, carrying his hat in his hand. He repeated his question, and I told him that I was wondering about the velocipedes in Portugal.
"Portugal—Portugal," he ruminated. "I've never been in Portugal. I've been near it, though. I've been in Spain. In fact, I own some property in Spain."
"Do you?" I queried in astonishment. "But you look like an American. And Portugal's right straight out there. Why didn't you go there first?"
"Well, I went another way, you see. And then the Spaniards are easier to get along with—they're better landlords."
"Can you talk Spanish?" I demanded.
"A little," he replied modestly; "enough to answer. Tell me about this velocipede of yours. How did it get to Portugal?"
"It didn't get there," I told him; "it's coming from there. Or, anyhow, it's coming from somewhere. On my father's ship."
"Oh, your father has a ship, has he?"
"Yes. He told me this morning that I could have a velocipede when his ship came in."
He looked down at me seriously enough.