His hair is roached, so that it stands up in confusion, and he is wearied all the time about the deplorable "help."' It is believed he knows better than is done--always a source of unhappiness.

His name is Francisco; his reputation is widespread.

He is the man who "speaks English"-- and is the only one--and it is not doubted that he knows at least a hundred words of our noble tongue.

He says, "What do you want ?" "Good morning, gentlemen"; "What can I do for you ?" "Do you want dinner ?" "No, there is no ice till 6 o'clock." He puts the Americans in mind of better days.

Behind this linguist is a little woman, whose age might be twenty or sixty, for her face is so unutterably sad and immovable in expression that there is not a line in it that tells you anything but that there is to this little woman a bitterly sad, mean, beastly world.