“Petty!” he exclaimed. “Petty revolutions!”
“That is certainly what they are,” I returned. “Your country is so small and insignificant that we seldom hear of it in the big world; and your revolution is so absurdly unimportant that we never hear of it at all.”
“But you will!” he cried. “When we have won and my father is made president the world will ring with our victory.”
“Nonsense,” said I. “The newspapers in the United States will give it about an inch of space, and the people who read that inch will wonder where on earth Colombia is.”
He seemed nettled at this, and a little crestfallen.
“That inch of publicity,” I continued, “you will perhaps get in case you win. But if you lose you remain unnoticed. There are lots of Central and South American republics, and plenty of revolutions in them at all times. To be frank with you, Alfonso, the people of more important nations are weary of reading about them.”
He hardly knew what to reply, but his humiliation was of short duration. After strutting up and down the deck a few turns he rejoined us and said:
“You may sneer at Colombia—and at her great revolution—but you cannot sneer at the family of De Jiminez. We are very ancient.”
“You are, indeed,” I assented. “You have had a great many ancestors; but they are mostly dead, are they not?”
“How far back can you trace your descent?” he asked.