"Oil City," I answered.
"You'll be sore," the Italian rejoined, and slapped his thigh. "Why not stop here and get good job?"
But Peter and I were not looking for a job just then, and we went on. I was glad the Bulgarian was not tempted, for I relished his company, and he was pleasantly loquacious.
"Do you like the Americans?" I asked him.
He raised his eyebrows. Evidently he did not like them very much.
"Half-civilise," said he. "When I say my boss, 'I go,' he want me fight. He offens me. I say, 'You Americans—bulldogs, no more, half-civilise.' And I go all the same and no fight great big fat American."
"You think Bulgaria a better country?"
"'S a poor country, that's all. There's more life in Europe. Americans don't know what they live for."
I looked with some astonishment on this day-labourer in shabby attire talking thus intelligently, and withal so frankly.