The Jap cook--who shoots wild parrots with a revolver, and whose Mexican girl wife spends her time feeding the small wild birds that her husband has caged--were both on the verge of a general strike. As a result of which the A. F. D. American said he would “chuck the Jap into the river” and looked as if he meant it. We have permanently attached to us two half-Mexican Texas boys--they wear sloppy clothes, red knotted handkerchiefs round their necks, and loud blue check shirts. One of them with black hair standing up on end and a three days’ growth on his chin, looks like the most dangerous type of Apache. I overheard these two by the light of a lanthorne discussing the newly arisen situation. They were not going to accept any orders from one their equal. “He may have been in the firm 20 years, and he trades on it but that does not make us his subordinates”--they argued what should be done: not fight him with fists they agreed, as he had done some quite shining light boxing in his day--“we will get him into the river!”--Here I interfered, I assured them they were here to take care of me, and there must be no tragedies and no rows. I left them when they had sworn to keep the peace. The worst thing the A. F. D. American had against me was that I offered him the eggs after General Barragan had tasted them. General Barragan is my parrot. So beautiful, so spoiled. He has a passion for poached eggs, and always comes onto the table at breakfast. Who could mind eating out of the dish after General Barragan? But whatever I did was wrong, in the unrelenting eyes of the A. F. D. American. So I got the Canadian, who is senior to him, to send him back as soon as possible to Tampico on some pretext of an errand. We breathed more freely when he was gone. The Swede who took his place was sent, I think, as a practical joke, for the poor man could be of no value to us and he was miserable in a life that was perfectly alien to him. A rather thin, chetif man; he hated the effort of the long rough walk to get here. Hated the tent, the bugs, the heat, washing in the river, the absence of movies and restaurants. “Isn’t it beautiful?” I asked him--Oh yes, he agreed it was beautiful. “Peaceful?” Oh yes, it was peaceful. “Restful?” Yes, it was restful, but he was not in search of beauty, peace or rest, and he left us at his earliest opportunity. One night, however, we broke the spell. There was neither rest nor peace. We gave a dance! In a way it was unpremeditated, and grew by itself, as those things sometimes do. It began by engaging two musicians, a violinist and a mandolin player and by inviting the milkman’s daughter and two nieces.