“Why, do you think?”
“They’re trying to start a new thing, that’s all. They’ve got this society on the lake here, of the Men of Quetzalcoatl, and they go round singing songs. It’s another dodge for national-socialism, that’s all.”
“What do they do, the Men of Quetzalcoatl?”
“I can’t see they do anything, except talk and get excited over their own importance.”
“But what’s the idea?”
“I couldn’t say. Don’t suppose they have any. But if they have, they won’t let on to you. You’re a gringo—or a gringita, at the best. And this is for pure Mexicans. For los señores, the workmen, and los caballeros, the peons. Every peon is a caballero nowadays, and every workman is a señor. So I suppose they’re going to get themselves a special god, to put the final feather in their caps.”
“Where did it start, the