We had to have some one right away; so the family went
down stairs and took him a week on trial; then sent him up
to me and departed on their affairs. I was shut up in my
quarters with a bronchial cough, and glad to have something
fresh to look at, something new to play with. Manuel filled
the bill; Manuel was very welcome. He was toward fifty
years old, tall, slender, with a slight stoop—an artificial stoop,
a deferential stoop, a stoop rigidified by long habit—with face of European mould; short hair intensely black; gentle black eyes,
timid black eyes, indeed; complexion very dark, nearly black
in fact; face smooth-shaven. He
was bareheaded and barefooted,
and was never otherwise while his
week with us lasted; his clothing
was European, cheap, flimsy, and
showed much wear.
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MANUEL.
He stood before me and inclined his head (and body) in the pathetic Indian way, touching his forehead with the finger-ends of his right hand, in salute. I said:—
"Manuel, you are evidently Indian, but you seem to have a Spanish name when you put it all together. How is that?"
A perplexed look gathered in his face; it was plain that he had not understood—but he didn't let on. He spoke back placidly.
"Name, Manuel. Yes, master."
"I know; but how did you get the name?"
"Oh, yes, I suppose. Think happen so. Father same name, not mother."
