The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume

looks like it. However, we shall know for certain when the messenger comes back from Acauhtzin.”

      “Yes; my uncle told me the boat had gone up to-day to bid the fleet return.”

      “A wild-goose chase only,” thought Jack, but held his peace, lest he should alarm Dolores.

      Fearful of attracting her uncle’s attention by speaking too much to Jack, the Spanish beauty crossed over to where Philip and Eulalia were sitting.

      “Señor Felipe!” said Dolores, gaily, “wherefore do you laugh?”

      “It is at Don Pedro and my good aunt,” replied Eulalia, before Philip could speak. “Behold them, Dolores, making signs like wooden puppets.”

      Dolores turned her eyes towards the couple leaning over the azotea railing, and began to laugh also. Then Jack came over and demanded to be informed of the joke. He was speedily informed of the performance going on above; so that the two actors had quite an audience, although they knew it not. Indeed the affair was sufficiently grotesque. It was like a game of dumb crambo, as Peter acted a word, and the old lady tried to guess his meaning.

      For instance, wishing to tell her how he captured butterflies, Peter wagged his hands in the air to indicate the flight of insects, then struck at a phantom beetle with an imaginary net.

      “Pajaros!” guessed Doña Serafina, wrongly. Peter did not know this was the Spanish for ‘birds,’ and thought she had caught his meaning. The lady thought so too, and was delighted with her own perspicuity.

      “Bueno, Señor! You catch birds! To eat?”

      She imitated eating, whereon Peter shook his head though he was not quite sure if the Cholacacans did not eat beetles. Foreigners had so many queer customs.

      Seeing Peter misunderstood, Doña Serafina skipped lightly across the azotea, flapping her arms, and singing. Then she turned towards the doctor, and nodded encouragingly.

      “Birds!” she said, confidently. “You eat them?”

      Now Peter knew that ‘comida’ meant eating; but quite certain that Doña Serafina did not devour beetles, set himself to work to show her what he really meant. He ran after imaginary butterflies round the azotea, and, in his ardour, bumped up against Tim.

      “What the devil are you after?” said Tim, displeased at his conversation with Maraquando being interrupted. “Why can’t you behave yourself, you ill-conducted little person.”

      “Do they eat beetles, here?” asked Tim, eagerly.

      “Beetles! they’d be thin, if they did,” said Tim, drily. “I don’t know. Do you eat beetles, Señor?” he added, turning to Don Miguel.

      The Spaniard made a gesture of disgust, and looked inquiringly at his sister.

      “Los pajaros,” explained Doña Serafina, smiling.

      “Oh, ‘tis birds she’s talking about!”

      “Birds!” replied the doctor, blankly. “I thought I showed her butterflies. This way,” and he began hovering round again.

      Tim roared.

      “They’ll think you have gone out of what little mind you possess, Peter!”

      “Ah, pobrecito,” said Serafina, when the meaning of the pantomime was explained, “I thought he was playing at a flying bird.”

      “You’ll never make your salt as an actor, Peter,” jeered Tim, as they all laughed over the mistake. “I’d better call up Philip and Jack to keep you straight. Jack, come up here, and bring Philip with you.”

      “All right,” replied Jack, from the depths below, where they had been watching the performance with much amusement; “we are coming.”

      The quartette soon made their appearance in the azotea, where Peter’s mistake was explained.

      “Do it again, Peter,” entreated Philip, laughing; “you have no idea how funny you look flopping about!”

      “I shan’t,” growled the doctor, ruffled. “Why can’t they talk English?”

      “Doña Dolores can talk a little,” said Jack, proudly “Señorita talk to my friend in his own tongue.”

      “It is a nice day,” repeated Doña Dolores, slowly; “‘ow do you do?”

      “Quite well, thank you,” replied Peter, politely; whereat his friends laughed again in the most unfeeling manner.

      “Oh, you can laugh,” said Peter, indignantly; “but if I was in love with a girl, I would teach her some better words than about the weather, and how do you do!”

      “I have done so,” replied Jack, quietly; “but those words are for private use.”

      At this moment Dolores, laughing behind her fan, was speaking to Doña Serafina, who thereupon advanced towards Peter.

      “I can speak to the Americano,” she announced to the company; then, fixing Peter with her eye, said, with a tremendous effort, “Darling!”

      “Oh!” said the modest Peter, taken aback, “she said, ‘darling’!”

      “Darling!” repeated Serafina, who was evidently quite ignorant of the meaning.

      “That’s one of the words for private use, eh, Jack?” laughed Philip, quite exhausted with merriment. “A very good word. I must teach it to Doña Eulalia.”

      “It’s too bad of you, Doña Dolores,” said Jack, reproachfully; whereat Dolores laughed again at the success of her jest.

      “Did the Señor have good sport with Cocom,” asked Don Miguel, somewhat bewildered at all this laughter, the cause of which, ignorant as he was of English, he could not understand.

      “Did you have a good time, Peter,” translated Tim, fluently, “with the beetles.”

      “Oh, splendid! tell him splendid. I captured some Papilionidae! and a beautiful little glow-worm. One of the Elateridae species, and——”

      “I can’t translate all that jargon, you fat little humming-bird! He had good sport, Señor,” he added, suddenly turning to Don Miguel.

      “Bueno!” replied the Spaniard, gravely, “it is well.”

      It was no use trying to carry on a common conversation, as the party invariably split up into pairs. Dolores and Eulalia were already chatting confidentially to their admirers. Doña Serafina began to make more signs to Peter, with the further addition of a parrot-cry of “Darling,” and Tim found himself once more alone with Don Miguel.

      “I have written out my interview with the President,” he said slowly; “and it goes to England to-morrow. Would you like to see it first, Señor?”

      “If it so pleases you, Señor Correspoñsal.”

      “Good! then I shall bring it with me to-morrow morning. Has that steamer gone to Acauhtzin yet?”

      “This afternoon it departed, Señor. It will return in two days with the fleet.”

      “I hope so, Don Miguel, but I am not very certain,” replied Tim, significantly. “His Excellency Gomez does not seem very sure of the fleet’s fidelity either.”

      “There are many rumours in Tlatonac,” said Maraquando, impatiently. “All lies spread by the Opposidores—by Xuarez and his gang. I fear the people are becoming alarmed. The army, too, talk of war. Therefore, to set all these matters at rest, to-morrow evening his Excellency the President will address the Tlatonacians at the alameda.”

      “Why at the alameda?”

      “Because most of them will be assembled there at the twilight hour, Señor. It