I was beginning to learn what it means to be a popular president; but, of course, I would grow accustomed to all these things in time.
Robbins did likewise.
He seemed to enjoy it hugely, for he did not allow anything like worry or anxiety to disturb the pleasure of the auspicious occasion.
At length, when I believe I had shaken hands two or three times with every man, woman and child inside the precincts of Bolivar, the function was declared closed.
Robbins, as master of ceremonies, called for three cheers, and they almost shook the citadel with the volume of sound; really, it looked as though the new Gringo president had jumped into the affections of the people at a single bound, if one could judge from the enthusiasm they manifested.
Sounds are easily made—brawling brooks are ever shallow—still water runs deep.
I know that now, if I forgot it then.
“Come, I’m tired,” I said to the secretary of war.
He gave me his arm, like a true diplomat; I waved my hand to my people, and received another series of cheers, and yells, and—well, what in an American city would be termed “cat calls,” but which I suppose in Bolivar represented the best effort at applause of a community yearning to be elevated.
We walked away in a dignified manner.