XXII.
A RIDE THROUGH A MINING REGION.
"MUCHO polvo," said I to the driver of the diligence that took me from the station on the Mexican Railway towards Pachuca. Mucho polvo literally translated, means "much dust."
"Si, señor," replied Jehu.
Our eight mules were in the best of spirits, and succeeded in raising such a cloud of dust as obscured the landscape for miles. I wished to remark upon the beauty of the scenery, but not recalling the proper Spanish words, and happy to find that the driver understood my comment, I said again, "Mucho polvo."
"Si, señor."
In ten minutes, there rested upon the face of nature such a pall of dust as it would take a deluge to remove again, but through it all our mules galloped gayly, flinging up fresh clouds at every leap, until it was so thick around me, that, had we been standing still, I am certain we should have been buried as in a snow-drift. As the driver could not select his route, those mules gave rein to their desire to torture us as much as possible, and if there existed in that road a rock or rut that we did not go over or into, it was only because those animals could not find it. By way of varying the monotony of things I said to the driver, in a voice husky with dust, "Moo-moo-cho pol-pol-vo."
The motion of the coach prevented me from giving, perhaps, the correct Castilian pronunciation, as one minute I was clinging to the hand-rail at his side, the next over amongst the baggage in the rear, and again down somewhere in the region of the mules; but he understood me perfectly,—he was a very intelligent Mexican,—and replied promptly, "Si, señor."
