The conversation returned to its former course.
“I notice the absence of our great preacher,” said one of the clerks, an honest, inoffensive fellow, who had not yet said a word. Those who knew the story of Ibarra’s father looked significantly at one another. “Fools rush in,” said the glances of some; but others, more considerate, tried to cover the error.
“He must be somewhat fatigued——”
“Somewhat!” cried the alférez. “He must be spent, as they say here, malunqueado. What a sermon!”
“Superb! Herculean!” was the opinion of the notary.
“Magnificent! Profound!” said a newspaper correspondent.
In the other booth the children were more noisy than little Filipinos are wont to be, for at table or before strangers they are usually rather too timid than too bold. If one of them did not eat with propriety, his neighbor corrected him. To one a certain article was a spoon; to others a fork or a knife; and as nobody settled their questions, they were in continual uproar.
Their fathers and mothers, simple peasants, looked in ravishment to see their children eating on a white cloth, and doing it almost as well as the curate or the alcalde. It was better to them than a banquet.
“Yes,” said a young peasant woman to an old man grinding his buyo, “whatever my husband says, my Andoy shall be a priest. It is true, we are poor; but Father Mateo says Pope Sixtu was once a keeper of carabaos at Batanzas! Look at my Andoy; hasn’t he a face like St. Vincent?” and the good mother’s mouth watered at the sight of her son with his fork in both hands!
“God help us!” said the old man, munching his sapa. “If Andoy gets to be pope, we will go to Rome! I can walk yet! Ho! Ho!”