And Gerrian laughed a Pike’s laugh at his pun. It was a laugh that had been stunted in its childhood by the fever and ague, and so had grown up husk without heart.
“Have the black caught,” said I, “and we’ll clinch the bargain at once.”
There was a Mexican vaquero slouching about. Gerrian called to him.
“O Hozay! kesty Sinyaw cumprader curwolyow nigereeto. Wamos addelanty! Corral curwolyose toethoso!”
Pike Spanish that! If the Mexicans choose to understand it, why should Pikes study Castilian? But we must keep a sharp look-out on the new words that come to us from California, else our new language will be full of foundlings with no traceable parentage. We should beware of heaping up problems for the lexicographers of the twentieth century: they ought to be free for harmonizing the universal language, half-Teutonic, half-Romanic, with little touches of Mandingo and Mandan.
The bukkarer, as Gerrian’s Spanish entitled Hozay, comprehended enough of the order to know that he was to drive up the horses. He gave me a Mexican’s sulky stare, muttered a caramba at my rashness, and lounged off, first taking a lasso from its peg in the court.
“Come in, stranger,” said Gerrian, “before we start, and take a drink of some of this here Mission Dolorous wine.”
“How does that go down?” said he, pouring out golden juices into a cracked tumbler.
It was the very essence of California sunshine,—sherry with a richness that no sherry ever had,—a somewhat fiery beverage, but without any harshness or crudity. Age would better it, as age betters the work of a young genius; but still there is something in the youth we would not willingly resign.
“Very fine,” said I; “it is romantic old Spain, with ardent young America interfused.”