their amusement.
But the bands were military bands, and it was the army which had won all the revolutions. So the revolutions were their revolutions, and they were present for their own glory alone.
Musica pagada toca mal tono.
Spasmodically, the insolent yelling of the mob rose and subsided. La musica! La musica! The shout became brutal and violent. Kate always remembered it. La musica! The band peacocked its nonchalance. The shouting was a great yell: the degenerate mob of Mexico City!
At length, at its own leisure, the band in grey with dark rose facings struck up: crisp, martial, smart.
“That’s fine!” said Owen. “But that’s really good! And it’s the first time I’ve heard a good band in Mexico, a band with any backbone.”
The music was smart, but it was brief. The band seemed scarcely to have started, when the piece was over. The musicians took their instruments from their mouths with a gesture of dismissal. They played just to say they’d played, making it as short as possible.
Musica pagada toca mal tono.
There was a ragged interval, then the silver band piped up. And at last it was half-past three, or more.
Whereupon, at some given signal, the masses in the middle, unreserved seats, suddenly burst and rushed down on to the lowest, reserved seats. It was a crash like a burst reservoir, and the populace in black Sunday suits poured down round and about our astonished, frightened trio. And in two minutes it was over. Without any pushing or shoving. Everybody careful, as far as possible, not to touch anybody else. You don’t elbow your neighbour if he’s got a pistol on his hip and