s; and, last of all, the intrepid mantilla, who calmly meets the
final rush of the infuriated beast and, with one unerring thrust of his
trusty sword, delivers the porte-cochere, or fatal stroke, just behind
the left shoulder-blade, while all about the assembled peons and
pianolas rend the ambient air with their delighted cry: _"Hoi Polloi!
Hoi Polloi! Dolce far niente!"_

Isn't it remarkable how readily the seasoned tourist masters the
difficulties of a foreign language? Before I had been in Mexico an hour
I had picked up the intricate phraseology of the bullfight; and I was
glad afterward that I took the trouble to get it all down in my mind
correctly, because such knowledge always comes in handy. You can use it
with effect in company--it stamps you as a person of culture and
travel--and it impresses other people; but then I always could pick up
foreign languages easily. I do not wish to boast--but with me it amounts
to a positive gift.

It was a weekday when we visited Tia Juana, and so there was no
bullfight going on; in fact, there didn't seem to be much of anything
going on. Once in a while a Spigotty lady would pass, closely followed
by a couple of little Spigots, and occasionally the postmaster would
wake up long enough to accept a sheaf of postcards from a tourist and
then go right back to sleep again. We had sampled the tamales of the
country, finding them only slightly inferior to the same article as sold
in Kansas City, Kansas; and we had drifted--three of us--into a Mexican
cafe. It was about ten feet square and was hung with chromos furnished
by generous Milwaukee brewers and other decorations familiar to all who
have ever visited a crossroads bar-room on our own side of the line.
Bottled beer appeared to be the one best bet in the drinking line, and
the safest one, too; but somehow I hated--over here upon the soil of
another country--to be calling for the domestic brews of our own St.
Louis! Personally I desired to conform my thirst to the customs of the
country--only I didn't know what to ask for. I had learned the
bullfighting language, but I hadn't progressed very far beyond that
point. While I was deliberating a Mexican came in and said something in
Spanish to the barkeeper and the barkeeper got a bottle of a clear,
almost colorless fluid out from under the counter and poured him a
sherry glassful of it. So then, by means of a gesture that is universal
and is understood in all climes, I indicated to