“Do you think he understands English?” inquired Clayey of me in a whisper.
“I should think not,” I replied.
“Well, then, I wish to say aloud that this old chap’s a superb old gent. What say you, Major? Don’t you wish we had him on the lines?”
“I wish his kitchen were a little nearer the lines,” replied the other, with a wink.
“Señor Coronel, permit me—”
“What is it, my dear Don?” inquired the major.
“Pasteles de Moctezuma.”
“Oh, certainly. I say, lads, I don’t know what the plague I’m eating—it’s not bad to take, though.”
“Señor Coronel, allow me to help you to a guana steak.”
“A guana steak!” echoed the major, in some surprise.