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"Ve haf more barancas if you like dthem." "Oh, Guillermo," I say, "please let me go in!" "Not for my sake! I can hold you here von hour vidth dthese 'gude-for-nodthing' hands." "Oh, I don't doubt it; you're the strongest man I ever knew, but I don't like barancas. Please, please, Guillermo!"
Don Guillermo handed me the razor, in order that I might remove the swelling, but I refused the task. The story of the child is sad. It is the son of a young indian boy and girl, not married. That would not be a serious matter among the Triquis.
"You vould soon learn it," he says, "you understand many words now, I know by your face. Can you say my name, I vondair; try! Federico Guillermo." "Federico Guillermo," I repeat imperfectly "what a beautiful name!" "Dthen Blanca vill call me 'Guillermo. I like not 'de Baron de Bach' from her lips. Besides ve use not titles in Peru." Mrs.
Ay! and thy ranchos have richer soil and many more cattle, but he has a library, Don Guillermo, and thou hast not. I spanked him then and there; but I never forgot what he said, and thou hast read what thou listed. I would not that the children of Alejandro Estenega should know more than those of Guillermo Iturbi y Moncada."
It was hard enough to get our male subjects; the women were yet more difficult. At first we failed to secure any, but after we had several times told the town officials that twenty-five women must be forthcoming for measurement, and Don Guillermo had stormed and threatened, the town-government began to plan a mode of carrying out our wishes.
"Well, then, you must know," continued the young man, "this morning that famous student-shepherd called Chrysostom died, and it is rumoured that he died of love for that devil of a village girl the daughter of Guillermo the Rich, she that wanders about the wolds here in the dress of a shepherdess." "You mean Marcela?" said one.
"Rozales!" he exclaimed, and struck the man as he had never struck another in all his life, with the full force of his mighty muscles backed by his great weight, with clenched fist full in the face. There was a spurting of blood and a splintering of bone, and Captain Guillermo Rozales sank senseless to the ground, his career of crime and rapine ended forever.
Tijuana, a sprawling 2 million with its myriad colonias, was like a ghetto of San Diego. He walked to Juarez Street. He saw an empty lot of grass where some fruit drink vendors had been throwing out orange peels for a long period of time. He saw mounds of dirt and trash that were in this street. Guillermo turned to a pay phone that was on a side street.
There was our friend Don Guillermo, who rode a beautiful horse that had once belonged to the captain of a band of robbers, and had not its equal in the city for swiftness; and Don Juan on his splendid little brown horse Pancho, lazoing stray mules as he went, and every now and then galloping into a meadow by the roadside after a bull, who was off like a shot the moment he heard the sound of hoofs.
Guillermo decided, as night approached, to take the trolley into San Ysidro to make his exit into Tijuana. He was not about to stay in a shelter. Unlike many Mexicans, he could reenter America another day. His was a mostly legal journey having obtained a passport years earlier for his military service, which enabled these sojourns.