October 20. Have had to chastise Tomas, and have thus violated Governor Taft’s standards for American treatment of our brown friends.  Tomas is about forty and the father of a small boy, and Mr. S——­, who contemplates setting up a bachelor’s establishment when the epidemic is over, fondly dreams that Tomas embodies the essentials of a cook.  So Mr. S——­ brought Tomas down, accompanied by his son, a child of twelve, with the request that I train them for him.  I set them first to washing dishes, and had a struggle of a week or so’s duration in trying to adjust Tomas’s conception of that labor to my own.  I particularly ordered that no refuse was to be thrown in the yard or under the house.  This rule was violated several times, and my patience pretty well exhausted.  I stepped into the kitchen this morning just in time to see Tomas doubling over, and poking the coffee grounds down between the bamboo slats of the flooring.  The American broom was handy, and the angle of Tomas’s inclination was sufficient to expose a large area of resisting surface.  So I promptly “swatted” Tomas with the broom with such energy that the coffeepot flew up in the air and he tumbled over head foremost.  His small boy sent up a wail of terror; and Billy Buster, the monkey, who was discussing a chicken bone, fled up to the thatch, where he remained all day until coaxed down by the tinkle of a spoon in a toddy glass.  Tomas was out of breath, but not so much so that he could not ejaculate, “Sus!  Maria Santisima, Senorita!” in injured tones.  Ciriaco, the cook, lay down on the floor and laughed.  Later I heard him and Ceferiana agreeing that I was “muy valiente”

October 25. In spite of the agua finecada and the boiled towel, Mrs. T——­’s cook has developed cholera.  Though I speak of it lightly, I am truly sorry for them, for Mrs. T——­ is exceedingly nervous, and they have a little child to care for.

There is a slight diminution in the death rate, and we begin to hope the worst is over.

October 28. The death rate is still decreasing.  When will the rain come?

To-day I discovered that all the elaborate boilings of dish cloths and towels that have been carried out here since the epidemic began have been a mere farce.  Every day for a week I went out and superintended the operation till I thought Ceferiana had mastered it.  She had, indeed, caught the details, but quite missed the idea.  She found the process of suspending the dish towel on a long stick till it was cool enough to wring out, a tedious one, so she set her fertile brain to work to find an expedient in the way of a bucket of cool well water, into which she dropped them.  Well water!  All but pure cholera!  We had a hearty laugh over it at dinner to-night, though Mr. C——­ looked grave.  His official dignity sits heavily upon him.

Tomas dodges me when he passes.  I find it impossible to restore his confidence.