I took the bottle and drank. It was the chingarito—a bad species of aguardiente from the wild aloe—and hot as fire. A mouthful sufficed. I handed the flask to Clayley, who drank more freely. Raoul followed suit, and the bottle came back to the Irishman.
“Your hilth, darlint!” said he, nodding to the Mexican woman. “May yez live till I wish ye dead!”
The woman smiled, and repeated, “No entiende.”
“Och! nivir mind the tin days—we won’t quarrel about that. Ye’re a swate crayteur,” continued he, winking at the woman; “but sure yer petticoats is mighty short, an’ yez want a pair of stockin’s bad, too; but nivir mind—yez stand well upon thim illigant ankles—’dade ye do; and yez have a purty little futt into the bargain.”
“Qué dice?” (What does he say?) asked the Mexican, speaking to Raoul.
“He is complimenting you on the smallness of your feet,” answered the Frenchman.
The woman was evidently pleased, and commenced cramping up what was in fact a very small foot into its faded satin slipper.
“Tell me, my dear,” continued Chane, “are yez married?”
“Qué dice?” again asked the woman.
“He wants to know if you are married.”