“They are Panamaniacs,” he growled, “and don’t know how to do anything but wait. They’d wait until a man starved. If these Panamaniacs would stir around and do more working and less waiting they would have an appetite themselves for breakfast, and learn the use of food.”
“I’ll speak to them in Spanish. Perhaps it will start them up,” I said. So I called to one of them in a loud voice:
“Camerero! Busqueme un toreador.” (Waiter! Bring me a bull-fighter.)
“Toreador?” (Bull-fighter) he exclaimed with a look of amazement.
“Si, toreador,” I said. “Por qué no? Es para tener este naranja.” (Yes; bull-fighter. Why not? He is to hold this orange.)
“Pardone, Señor, creo que Vd. quiere un tenedor.” (I beg your pardon, sir, I think you want a fork.)
“Como Vd. quiere” (As you like), I answered, as if I had made no mistake. “Es lo mismo. Quiero enseñar á estos Norte Americanos como se come una naranja. Ellos no saben nada, absolutamente nada. No saben ni comer ni hablar.” (It’s the same thing. I wish to teach these North Americans how to eat an orange. They know nothing, absolutely nothing. They neither know how to eat nor talk.)
The waiter seemed much relieved by this information and said in Spanish that waiters had to be smart men, but travelers who paid for the privilege, had the right to be fools; and went out smiling with polite rage. A moment later the eggs were brought in and the two old gentlemen were soon busy and better natured. The milder one who had allowed the other to do the talking said to me:
“I see that your Spanish did some good.”
“Yes,” chimed in the fiery one, “when you talk to a horse you must talk horse.”