he trouble comes from not consulting the old-timers
here. A project in fine words, and especially with a big appropriation,
with an appropriation in round numbers, dazzles, meets with acceptance
at once, for this!" Here, in further explanation, he rubbed the tip
of his thumb against his middle and forefinger. [4]

"There's something in that, there's something in that," Ben-Zayb
thought it his duty to remark, since in his capacity of journalist
he had to be informed about everything.

"Now look here, before the port works I presented a project, original,
simple, useful, economical, and practicable, for clearing away the bar
in the lake, and it hasn't been accepted because there wasn't any of
that in it." He repeated the movement of his fingers, shrugged his
shoulders, and gazed at the others as though to say, "Have you ever
heard of such a misfortune?"

"May we know what it was?" asked several, drawing nearer and giving
him their attention. The projects of Don Custodio were as renowned
as quacks' specifics.

Don Custodio was on the point of refusing to explain it from
resentment at not having found any supporters in his diatribe against
Simoun. "When there's no danger, you want me to talk, eh? And when
there is, you keep quiet!" he was going to say, but that would cause
the loss of a good opportunity, and his project, now that it could
not be carried out, might at least be known and admired.

After blowing out two or three puffs of smoke, coughing, and spitting
through a scupper, he slapped Ben-Zayb on the thigh and asked,
"You've seen ducks?"

"I rather think so--we've hunted them on the lake," answered the
surprised journalist.

"No, I'm not talking about wild ducks, I'm talking of the domestic
ones, of those that are raised in Pateros and Pasig. Do you know what
they feed on?"

Ben-Zayb, the only thinking head, did not know--he was not engaged
in that business.

"On snails, man, on snails!" exclaimed Padre Camorra. "One doesn't
have to be an Indian to know that; it's sufficient to have eyes!"

"Exactly so, on snails!" repeated Don Custodio, flourishing his
forefinger. "And do you know where they get them?"

Again the thinking head did not know.

"Well, if you had been in the country as many years as I have, you
would know that they fish them out of the bar itself, where they
abound, mixed with the sand."

"Then your project?"

"Well, I'm coming to that. My idea was to compel all the towns round
abo