walked off, as if distressed beyond measure, at the same time assuring me that he would send his comadrita (little godmother of his children) and her husband, who would serve me well.
They came, but it was unfortunate for Pancho. The woman was an inveterate talker, and soon informed me that she was not the comadrita of his children; nor had a cart run over his grandmother; in fact, he had none, as she had died before Pancho was born. This was a new phase of the subject, but I was not long in solving the enigma. He had been goaded long enough by my American methods; he had become the butt of ridicule from his friends, and now he would assert himself.
However well he was treated in our house, to be called upon to surrender the most precious boon of all his ''costumbres"—the market fees—never! But to wound my feelings in leaving was far from his wishes, so he shrewdly planned and carried out the tragic story of the mishap to his grandmother.
The comadrita introduced herself with chastened dignity as Jesusita Lopez; but with head loftily erect, and an air of much consequence, informed me that the name of her marido—(husband)—was Don Juan Bautista (John the Baptist), servidores de V. —("your obedient servants").
She smiled at every word, a way she had of assuring me of her delight in being allowed to serve me, but at the same time, glanced ominously at the cooking-stove. The smile lengthened into a broad grin when Don Juan Bautista came in sight; in her eyes he was "kingdoms, principalities, and powers." Together they examined the stove—talking in undertone—stooping low and scrutinizing every compartment. At last Don Juan Bautista arose, and turning to me said, "Jesusita cannot cook on this máquina Americana" (American machine).
"Why?" I asked. He straightened himself up to the highest point, half on tip toe, at the same time nodding his head, and pointing his forefinger at Jesusita, emphatically replied:
"Because it will give her disease of the liver—como siempre—as always, with the servants here."
