As I was saying, the Bearer’s recommendations were all from American tourists; and St. Peter would have admitted him to the fields of the blest on them—­I mean if he is as unfamiliar with our people and our ways as I suppose he is.  According to these recommendations, Manuel X. was supreme in all the arts connected with his complex trade; and these manifold arts were mentioned—­and praised-in detail.  His English was spoken of in terms of warm admiration—­admiration verging upon rapture.  I took pleased note of that, and hoped that some of it might be true.

We had to have some one right away; so the family went down stairs and took him a week on trial; then sent him up to me and departed on their affairs.  I was shut up in my quarters with a bronchial cough, and glad to have something fresh to look at, something new to play with.  Manuel filled the bill; Manuel was very welcome.  He was toward fifty years old, tall, slender, with a slight stoop—­an artificial stoop, a deferential stoop, a stoop rigidified by long habit—­with face of European mould; short hair intensely black; gentle black eyes, timid black eyes, indeed; complexion very dark, nearly black in fact; face smooth-shaven.  He was bareheaded and barefooted, and was never otherwise while his week with us lasted; his clothing was European, cheap, flimsy, and showed much wear.

He stood before me and inclined his head (and body) in the pathetic Indian way, touching his forehead with the finger—­ends of his right hand, in salute.  I said: 

“Manuel, you are evidently Indian, but you seem to have a Spanish name when you put it all together.  How is that?”

A perplexed look gathered in his face; it was plain that he had not understood—­but he didn’t let on.  He spoke back placidly.

“Name, Manuel.  Yes, master.”

“I know; but how did you get the name?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose.  Think happen so.  Father same name, not mother.”

I saw that I must simplify my language and spread my words apart, if I would be understood by this English scholar.

“Well—­then—­how—­did—­your—­father—­get—­his name?”

“Oh, he,”—­brightening a little—­“he Christian—­Portygee; live in Goa; I born Goa; mother not Portygee, mother native-high-caste Brahmin—­Coolin Brahmin; highest caste; no other so high caste.  I high-caste Brahmin, too.  Christian, too, same like father; high-caste Christian Brahmin, master—­Salvation Army.”

All this haltingly, and with difficulty.  Then he had an inspiration, and began to pour out a flood of words that I could make nothing of; so I said: 

“There—­don’t do that.  I can’t understand Hindostani.”

“Not Hindostani, master—­English.  Always I speaking English sometimes when I talking every day all the time at you.”

“Very well, stick to that; that is intelligible.  It is not up to my hopes, it is not up to the promise of the recommendations, still it is English, and I understand it.  Don’t elaborate it; I don’t like elaborations when they are crippled by uncertainty of touch.”