r, stirred the younger
men into some gallant attention, embarrassed, however, by a sense of
self-reproach.

Senor Perkins alone retained his normal serenity. Already seated at
the table between the two fair-headed children of Mrs. Brimmer, he
was benevolently performing parental duties in her absence, and gently
supervising and preparing their victuals even while he carried on an
ethnological and political discussion with Mrs. Markham.

"Ah, my dear lady," continued the Senor, as he spread a hot biscuit with
butter and currant jelly for the youngest Miss Brimmer, "I am afraid
that, with the fastidiousness of your sex, you allow your refined
instincts against a race who only mix with ours in a menial capacity to
prejudice your views of their ability for enlightened self-government.
That may be true of the aborigines of the Old World--like our friends
the Lascars among the crew"--

"They're so snaky, dark, and deceitful-looking," interrupted Mrs.
Markham.

"I might differ from you there, and say that the higher blonde types
like the Anglo-Saxon--to say nothing of the wily Greeks--were the
deceitful races: it might be difficult for any of us to say what a sly
and deceitful man should be like"--

"Oor not detheitful--oor a dood man," interpolated the youngest Miss
Brimmer, fondly regarding the biscuit.

"Thank you, Missie," beamed the Senor; "but to return: our Lascar
friends, Mrs. Markham, belong to an earlier Asiatic type of civilization
already decayed or relapsed to barbarism, while the aborigines of the
New World now existing have never known it--or, like the Aztecs, have
perished with it. The modern North American aborigine has not yet got
beyond the tribal condition; mingled with Caucasian blood as he is in
Mexico and Central America, he is perfectly capable of self-government."

"Then why has he never obtained it?" asked Mrs. Markham.

"He has always been oppressed and kept down by colonists of the Latin
races; he has been little better than a slave to his oppressor for the
last two centuries," said Senor Perkins, with a slight darkening of his
soft eyes.

"Injins is pizen," whispered Mr. Winslow to Miss Keene.

"Who would be free, you know, the poet says, ought themselves to light
out from the shoulder, and all that sort of thing," suggested Crosby,
with cheerful vagueness.

"True; but a little assistance and encouragement from mankind generally
would help them," continued the Senor. "Ah! my dear Mrs.