"You are no poor man, señor. Why should you fish?"
"I fish for sport."
"Caramba! sport! Do you think it is sport to bake in the sun, to be flung into the rapids, to fight the crocodiles that eat your catch? Do you call it sport to pack a tonelada of fish on your back, trying to vend them when no one will buy?"
Some fellow fishermen drew about the two at this curious conversation. One of them interposed:
"Perhaps el caballero is going to fish as a penance, Simon. Perhaps he has committed some grievous sin and el padre has imposed—"
"Basta! Are you blind, Alessandro? Do you not see this hombre is an Americano, and not a Christian at all? The padre is nothing to him."
Another voice in the fish-scented crowd took up the argument:
"An Americano! Perhaps he does fish for sport. They do the maddest things for sport; they run and walk and jump and fight for sport. This one went to the battle of San Geronimo and won a ribbon. There it is; you can see it for yourself on his coat."
One of the older fishers shrugged a naked shoulder:
"Sport never sent the Americano into the battle, brothers. I was talking to an hombre named Lubito, a bull-fighter, and what he said ... what Lubito said about this Americano...." The old peon nodded, and thumped the butt of his paddle on the ground.