"I have none of those things on my pate," laughed Felix, shaking his head vigorously. "If I have, I will scatter them. Are those shafts like the one that whirls the propeller of the Guardian-Mamma, Louis?"
"I am afraid the limits of your knowledge of the ornamental appendage of your fine head are not as near as they might be, for you do not seem to know the nomenclature of the hairs of your head."
"Are you talking Spanish just now, my darling? If not, I ought to have brought a dictionary with me," said Felix with a gasp to denote the depth of his despair.
"Point Mirador," called the pilot.
"Punta Mirador," added Louis.
"You ought to have your head bound with iron hoops, like a beer-barrel, to keep it from bursting with the fulness thereof, for some of the long words are sticking out through the cracks now."
"If it collapses, Flix, I hope you will gather up some of the fruits of the explosion; but at present I do not feel any extraordinary pressure, and I think you will have to acquire your own knowledge in the ordinary laborious manner."
"I don't see the p'nt of that point which you call a punta"—
"I don't call it a punta, but a poon-ta. Pronounce it correctly when you speak Spanish, Flix," interposed Louis.
"Poonta Mirador, then. There is more Mira-Por-Vos in it," added Felix, alluding to the group of islands among the Bahamas on one of which the foster-father of Scott had been picked up.