“Al Cuzco,” was the astonishing reply. A Peruvian boy actually leaving home to go somewhere else, just like a live American!
“Then we’d better go together,” I answered, as soon as I had recovered my breath.
The child rose without a word and turned his face with me toward the trail looping upward across the chasm.
“What’s your name?” I began lamely, as we strained along at the heels of Chusquito, who had seemed little less surprised than I at this extraordinary apparition.
“Teófilo Fulano,” replied our new companion.
“Fulano! Relative, perhaps, of the Señor Fulano at whose hacienda I spent last night?”
“Yes; Don Faustino is my father.”
“Impossible!” I cried. “He is only recently married and has no children.”
“Not since he is married,” replied the child, innocently, “and he won’t recognize me.”
“And your mother?” I continued after a time.