"When will you show me?" I say, affecting a carelessness I do not quite feel.
"Perhaps in Guatemala." I leave that side of the platform and lean out over the other. "Come back, Blanca; it ees not zafe!"
His tone is entirely too dictatorial. I close my hand firmly round the iron rail and lean out further still. At that instant, as ill-luck would have it, the train encounters some obstruction on the track, something is struck, and there is a jolt and concussion. Before I have time to recover myself I feel my hand wrested from the iron, and a powerful arm is closed around me, but instead of being drawn back, I am held out in the very position I myself had taken. Bewildered and frightened, I give one scream "on account" and turn my head with an endeavour to grasp the horrible situation. The Peruvian is holding to the rail with one hand and has me grasped under one arm as an inconsiderate child holds a kitten.
"Let me go!"
"I ask you before dthat you lean not out—but if you vill, I must zee dthat you fall not."
"I tell you I'll come back, let me go!" and I glance out shudderingly. We have passed over the obstruction, whatever it was, and are running along the side of a steep descent.
"I am sorry you dthink my hands zo weak, for if dthey fail ve bodth go down."
"Oh, please, please!" I gasp.
"Now ve come to a baranca. I am curious to zee vill you like a 'baranca.'"
The wretch speaks as calmly as if we sat in a Pullman car. Through all my fright and indignation I wonder what on earth's a "baranca"—and forget to scream.