“No entiende” said the man, with the same shake of the head.
“Oh! there agin with your tin days—but it’s no use; yez understand me well enough, but yez don’t want to bring the banes.”
“He tells you there is no more,” said Raoul.
“Oh! the desavin’ Judas! and five hundred ov thim grazers atin’ over beyant there. No more banes! oh, the lie!”
“Frijoles—no hay,” said the Mexican, guessing at the purport of Chane’s remarks.
“Fray holeys!” repeated Chane, imitating the Mexican’s pronunciation of the word “frijoles”. “Och! git out wid your fray holeys! There isn’t the size of a flay of holiness about the place. Git out!”
Raoul, and indeed all of us except the Irishman himself, were bursting with laughter.
“I’m chokin’,” said the latter, after a pause; “ask him for wather, Raowl—sure he can’t deny that, with that purty little sthrame boilin’ up undher our noses, as clear as the potteen of Ennishowen.”
Raoul asked for water, which we all needed. Our throats were as dry as charcoal. The Mexican made a sign to one of the women, who shortly came up with an earthen jar filled with water.
“Give it first to the captin, misthress,” said Chane, pointing to me; “sarve all ayqually, but respict rank.”