There was no reason that they should be otherwise. After traveling, nevertheless, through smaller towns, where natives looked upon a newcomer with interest and other Americans immediately introduced themselves, we found that we were regarding the entire population of the capital as downright discourteous. Americans upon the street were not merely indifferent but suspicious. When we attempted to stop one to inquire the way to the National Museum, he would duck aside and hurry away before we could speak. We had about decided to punch the next fellow-countryman we met, and were looking for a small one, when we discovered the reason for American distrust.
Every fourth gringo in town seemed to be broke and in need of alms.
Two clean-cut youngsters, lured here evidently by the illusion that any one could make his fortune in Latin America, came into an American restaurant where we lunched, and begged the proprietor for a job washing dishes.
“For God’s sake, man, we’re hungry! And we’re willing to work! All we ask is our meals, and five pesos a week to cover room rent—not a penny more!”
The proprietor shook his head.
“I’m sorry for them,” he said, as the youths went out, “but there’s too many. They use up all your sympathy.”
Another youth stopped us in the park.
“I’m not a regular bum,” he pleaded. “I came down here because a fellow I knew invited me. He was a Mexican, and he worked beside me in the auto factory up at Detroit. He was always telling me what a fine country this was. After he went home, he kept writing to me about how when I came to Mexico his house would be my house. I thought he meant it. And he kept saying there were lots of jobs. I didn’t know it was their habit to say nice things like that just to please you. I came down here three weeks ago, and there were no jobs—or else Mexicans took them on a salary that wouldn’t support an American—and when I looked up my friend, he kept saying that his house was my house, but I’ve never seen the inside of it, and since the first day I haven’t seen him. I’ve spent my last cent, and I’m up against it.”
But among the down and out were many less deserving, with stories just as good. Some were draft-evaders that had come to Mexico during the War, and had been unable to return. Others were professional vagabonds who had gravitated southward to enjoy the privileges of a country that recognized vagrancy as a legitimate profession. At first, like most new arrivals touched by the pitiful sight of a fellow-countryman in misfortune in a foreign land, we gave liberally. But within a few days, we grew hardened, and like the Old-Timers, we ducked away at the very approach of a strange American, even though he merely wished to ask his way to the National Museum.
For companionship, we confined ourselves to Old Barlow, who occupied the hotel room next to ours, and who drifted into our quarters now and then to gratify an Old Resident’s love of spinning yarns.