“Of course I’m not a bandit.” Pachuca’s composure appeared to be deserting him. “You do not seem to understand—you Americans—that Mexico is our country and that we must deal with its political situations independently of you and your affairs.”
“Oh,” innocently, “I didn’t know that political situations demanded blankets and victrola records.”
“You must make allowances for my people. They are poor and ignorant.”
“It isn’t the people we complain about. They only do what you tell them to. Why should you come and tell them to stop working for us?”
“In your country it is only the walking delegate who does that?” grinned Pachuca.
“That’s different. This wasn’t a strike. These men didn’t want to stop work.”
“My dear girl, you seem to have lost sight of the fact that a revolution is taking place. It is their duty to stop working and to fight.”
“It always seems to be their duty to fight and they never get anything out of it!”
“They do get something out of it. They got their land when they overthrew Diaz. With Carranza, they got a new constitution. With Obregon, they will get peace and a good government.”
“Then you are for Obregon?”