He wore a red cotton handkerchief tied on his head, a blue check shirt, and a shawl wound round his body in place of the _chiripà_ usually worn by native peasants. He jerked out his _“Buen dia”_ to me in a short, quick, barking voice, and invited me to sit down. “Cold water is bad for the constitution at this hour,” he said. “We will drink _maté.”_ There was such a rough, burr-like sound in his speech that I at once concluded he was a foreigner, or hailed from some Oriental district corresponding to our Durham or Northumberland. “Thank you,” I said, “a _maté_ is always welcome. I am an Oriental in that respect if in nothing else.” For I wished everyone I met to know that I was not a native. “Right, my friend,” he exclaimed. _“Maté_ is the best thing in this country. As for the people, they are not worth cursing.” “How can you say such a thing,” I returned. “You are a foreigner, I suppose, but your wife is surely an Oriental.” The Juno of the grease-pot smiled and threw a ladleful of tallow on the fire to make it roar; possibly this was meant for applause. He waved his hand deprecatingly, the bradawl used for his work in it. “True, friend, she is,” he replied. “Women, like horned cattle, are much the same all the world over. They have their value wherever you find them--America, Europe, Asia. We know it. I spoke of men.” “You scarcely do women justice-- _La mujer es un angel del cielo,”_ I returned, quoting the old Spanish song. He barked out a short little laugh. “That does very well to sing to a guitar,” he said. “Talking of guitars,” spoke the woman, addressing me for the first time; “while we are waiting for the _maté,_ perhaps you will sing us a ballad. The guitar is lying just behind you.” “Señora, I do not play on it,” I answered. “An Englishman goes forth into the world without that desire, common to people of other nations, of making himself agreeable to those he may encounter on his way; this is why he does not learn to perform on musical instruments.” The little man stared at me; then, deliberately disencumbering himself of surcingle, threads, and implements, he got up, advanced to me, and held out his hand. His grave manner almost made me laugh. Taking his hand in mine, I said: “What am I to do with this, my friend?” “Shake it,” he replied. “We are countrymen.” We then shook hands very vigorously for some time in silence, while his wife looked on with a smile and stirred the fat. “Woman,” he said, turning to her, “leave your grease till tomorrow. Breakfast must be thought of. Is there any mutton in the house?” “Half a sheep--only,” she replied.