“Señor, this is the place where you found some vases the last time you were here.”
“Then I am sold, robbed, done out of my find,” I cried in my disappointment, as though the cemetery were my property.
“But,” objected the old volcanero softly, “only a few loads of detritus were taken away; there must be more to come out.”
Acting on advice which seemed so reasonable, I soon discovered numerous _tepalcates_, fragments of vases, cups, and various potteries; we had lost so much time, however, in looking about, that we were soon obliged to abandon the mountain, trusting in what the morrow would bring forth.
A few words about our encampment may not be out of place here. The men occupied an open shed, with a huge chimney in the centre, where twice a day they prepared their own food, consisting of a small quantity of meat and the indispensable tortilla, the whole washed down with a good drop of mezcal. They slept on trusses of dry grass and mats. We were not better housed than the men, whilst our cooking was a great deal worse; if our shed was not quite so open, it was sufficiently so to admit the bitter night cold; the wind came in at all the windows unprotected by any shutters, through the thousand cracks of the ill-jointed enclosure, searing our faces and causing incessant sneezing. Although whole trees were burnt in the huge chimney, it made no appreciable difference in the atmosphere of the room, and as there was no tunnel we were nearly suffocated by the smoke, which, hovering about us, only escaped through the roof. At this altitude, with six or seven degrees below zero (Centigrade) at night, our bed of guttapercha felt like icicles, and every time I came in direct contact with it, I instantly awoke.
The food was plentiful, for the Tlacualero, our “errand-man,” went twice a day to Amecameca to fetch what was required for the whole party; and although the distance was fifteen leagues over a mountain path, I never knew him late. But if provisions were abundant, Julian’s cooking was so extraordinarily bad, that the only one who seemed to enjoy and thrive on it was the dog d’Artagnan; to him it was a matter of indifference if cutlets and beefsteaks were burnt to a cinder, if beans were transformed into sticks—nothing came amiss. As for us, not wishing to starve, we were obliged at last to do the cooking ourselves and confine our Calino to “washing up.” Not that he was a bad fellow, far from it; he deserved in every respect the excellent character I had received with him for honesty, but a man may have given satisfaction as a sacristan, as no doubt he had, and yet be a sorry cook.