“Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
Bob glanced aside so that the Mexican boy would not observe and winked by way of reply. Captain Cornell was mystified, he didn’t understand. But he had a good deal of respect for his companion, little though he knew him, so he decided to hold his hand a moment until he could discover what Bob had in mind. For that Bob was up to something, he felt assured. He moved closer.
Bob laughed, leaning on the gate as if he had nothing in the world to do but exchange pleasant conversation with the Mexican boy.
“Radio certainly is fascinating,” he replied in Spanish. “But I shouldn’t have thought it would keep you from the bull fight.”
“You are an American, senor, aren’t you?” asked the boy, a trace of scorn on his features. “The senor speaks my language well. But I can tell. Well, that accounts for your mistake. Not all Mexicans are animals.”
“Oh, here, here,” cut in Bob, apologetically, “I didn’t mean any harm. Why, I’ve just come from the bull fight myself, and I thought it mighty exciting.”
The boy’s expression became somewhat mollified.
“You see,” Bob hurried on, anxious to overcome the bad impression he obviously had created, and still a bit puzzled as to just why the boy had taken offense; “you see,” he said, “I, myself, am a radio enthusiast, and I know just how wrapped up in it a fellow can become.”
“Oh,” the boy moved closer. “The senor Americano will forgive my hasty temper. You see, he added, breaking into more hurried speech, “my mother is a widow who lets me do as I will in working with radio. But all her friends, they say”—and he shrugged—“they say she is foolish, touched in the head, to let me do so. They say, senor, that the good God did not want us to hear through the air for long distances or he would have equipped our ears. They say what I do is sacrilege.”
He laughed with a touch of bitterness.