“No in tin days!” cried Chane, mistaking the “no entiende” for a phrase of broken English, to which, indeed, its pronunciation somewhat assimilates it. “Och! git out wid you! Bad luck to yer picther! In tin days it’s Murtagh Chane that’ll ayther be takin’ his tay in purgathory or atin’ betther than black banes in some other part of the world.”
“No entiende,” repeated the Mexican as before.
“Tin days, indade! Sure we’d be did wid hunger in half the time. We want the banes now.”
“Qué quiere?” (What do you want?) asked the Mexican, speaking to Raoul, who was by this time convulsed with laughter.
“Phwhat’s that he sez, Raowl?” inquired Chane sharply.
“He says he don’t understand you.”
“Thin spake to him yerself, Raowl. Till him we want more banes, and a few more ov thim pancakes, if he plazes.”
Raoul translated the Irishman’s request.
“No hay” (There are none), answered the Mexican, shaking his forefinger in front of his nose.
“No I—is that phwhat ye say, my darlint? Well, iv yez won’t go yerself, sind somebody else; it’s all the same thing, so yez bring us the ateables.”