"No," interposes the Baron, with a fatherly decision; "you vill haf supper soon, and I haf order tortillas. Mine vill be better. Vait leedle."
Really, the Baron has quite taken me in hand, I think, half amused. But he is a very necessary quantity in this pilgrimage ashore, and I walk on obediently by his side, meditating how queer that one who appeared so masterful and imperious at times could be at others so weak and almost childish. It shed a new light on his character to see him ashore. Here he knows the people and their tongue, all our wants must pass through his interpretation, and he is master of the situation. He seems, moreover, to fall naturally and simply into the new office, and treats me quite as if I were a child. I want to stop and get some plantains as we pass a fruit stall.
"No," says the Baron, "you must not eat dthem; dthey air—unreif."
"Ah, but really," I say, "I must taste a plaintain; suppose you had never seen one of that kind before."
"I vill not buy dthem; I vill not see you ill," he says.
"Very well, I'll buy one for myself." I drop his arm and run to the booth, and, laying my finger on the greenest plantain I can find, I say:
"Quantos?"
The old woman in charge gabbles away for dear life, and, not feeling that I am progressing very rapidly, I lay down a media and take up the plantain. The Baron comes to my rescue with a half-amused, half-vexed smile.
"She haf cheat you," and he levels a volley of Spanish at the old criminal. "See," he says, "she vill gif you all dthose limes if you gif back dthat plantain, you vill be glad of limes abord du San Miguel."
"Yes," I say. "I'll have the limes, too." And I put down another media. He looks at me curiously.