The fonda, which was close at hand, looked clean and inviting; but its mistress, overwhelmed by this sudden intrusion of five ravenous and unintelligible foreigners, eyed us dubiously. She did not know a word of Spanish, and her husband—who was evidently the linguist of the family—was at Inca market. As she gazed blankly at us her children, from the eldest—a pretty girl in a red frock—to the baby, clustered about her, their faces reflecting the bewilderment expressed in hers.
The fact that the youngsters looked round and rosy and that they all held little branches of mandarin oranges hinted that we had come to the right place for food. Hunger has a universal language. The landlady's blank expression gradually gave place to one of intelligence. Before we left her she had promised to have a meal ready at ten o'clock; and comforting ourselves with that assurance, we went out to stroll about until the half hour of waiting had passed.
Wandering through the streets of the little town and peeping in at the open doors with the unblushing effrontery peculiar to the Briton abroad, we were rewarded by glimpses of many quaint interiors. In one, beside an unclassable machine, a heap of the thick fleshy leaves of the chumbera (cactus) was lying.
The owner of the house, a man toothless and shrivelled, but endowed with that aspect and air of juvenility that seems the heritage of age in Majorca, cordially invited us in. He had no knowledge of Spanish, but he had what was far more valuable—a keen intelligence.
Indulging our curiosity as to the nature of the odd machine, he ran off to return with a handful of macaroni; then darting into the machine house, he reappeared with a perforated bowl of burnished copper, and by signs proceeded to explain the process of pressing the paste through.
"But the chumberas?" somebody asked. "Were they the food of the mule who drove the machine?"
The old man shook his head. Evidently the motive power was not supplied by a member of the ass tribe. Returning to pantomime, he raised his hands to his head and protruded his fore-fingers after the manner of horns; then indicating to us to follow, ran out into the street, where we found him pointing down into an adjacent cellar, in whose depths two sleek grey oxen were placidly chewing the cud. So it was the oxen who turned the machine that made the macaroni, and it was the prickly foliage of the chumberas that their jaws were patiently munching.
The little town that nestles out of sight at the foot of the great range of hills is an enterprising one. Through the open front of a building in another street we caught sight of a fine dynamo; and being invited to enter, found ourselves in the presence of the electric plant of the town. As the grey-bearded superintendent told us, Alaró was the first town on the island to have electric light installed. Manacor was the second.
"And Palma?" we asked.