“What a real bad man you are, papa!”
“What a real good child are you, my son! Isn’t that so?”
“I don’t know, papa. I only know you are bad.”
“Oh! Oh! Is that all they teach thee at thy American school?”
“Next term,” said Ciprianito, “I want to change my name. I don’t want to be called Carrasco any more. When thou art in the newspapers, they will laugh at us.”
“Oh! Oh! I am laughing at thee now, little frog! What name wilt thou choose then? Espina, perhaps. Thou knowest Carrasco is a wild bush, on the moors in Spain, where we come from. Wilt thou be the little thorn on the bush? Call thyself Espina, thou art a sprig of the old tree. Entonces, Adios! Señor Espina Espinita!”
“Adios!” said the boy abruptly, flushing with rage.
Ramón took a motor-car to Sayula, for there was a