Into this city paradise, created by the hand of man, Jack introduced his friends, and formally presented them to Don Miguel, Jefe Politico of Tlatonac, who, having been informed of their arrival, awaited them in his patio according to the etiquette of the country. He was tall and lean and dry, with a most astonishing resemblance to Don Quixote as delineated by the pencil of Doré. For coolness, he wore a white linen suit, and shaded his austere face with a broad-brimed sombrero, which latter he removed with infinite grace on the appearance of the Englishman. "Welcome, gentlemen, to Tlatonac," he said majestically, in Spanish; "my house and all therein is at your disposal." After this hospitable greeting, he insisted that they should seat themselves in order to partake of some light refreshment. They had the greatest difficulty in assuring him that they were not hungry; as, indeed, they had just finished breakfast before leaving the yacht. Ultimately, in order not to offend their courteous host, they accepted some pulque, the national beverage of Mexico, and were sorry for the concession. Jack was used to the drink, and professed to like it; but the others pronounced it beastly. Those who have tried pulque for the first time will heartily endorse this opinion. "Oh, oh!" spluttered Peter, trying to conceal his distaste from their host; "it's like bad butter-milk." "What would I not give for a glass of whisky! 'Tis pig-wash, this same." "It is certainly not the milk of Paradise," said Philip, in disgust. Don Miguel had retired for a moment in search of cigars for the party, so they could express themselves freely to Jack. They took full advantage of the opportunity. "The Mexicans say the angels in heaven prefer it to wine," said Jack, who had finished his glass with great gusto. "They have a proverb: "'Lo beben, los angeles En vez de vino.'" "I can't say much for the angels' taste, then," retorted Philip, crossly. "Nastier stuff I never drank. Raki is bad enough, but it's nectar compared with pulque." Jack laughed heartily at the wry faces made by his friends, and comforted them after the manner of Job's acquaintances. "You'll have to drink it, however. Don Miguel will be offended if you do not." They all promptly poured the liquor into some of the flower-bearing jars which happened, fortunately enough, to be handy. "There," said Peter, triumphantly; "he'll think we have finished it." "I'll bring a pocket-pistol next time," said Tim, gloomily. "I'll be having the cholera with this stuff." "Hush! here is Don Miguel." Their host returned with a good supply of cigars, which proved to be more acceptable than the pulque. Maraquando expressed great surprise that Peter did not smoke. "What does he say?" asked Peter, woefully ignorant of Spanish. "That you ought to smoke." Peter shook his head in disgust. "Tell Don Miguel tobacco is slow poison." Maraquando laughed when this was translated to him.