words of our noble tongue.  He says, “What do you want?” “Good morning, gentlemen”; “What can I do for you?” “Do you want dinner?” “No, there is no ice till 6 o’clock.”  He puts the Americans in mind of better days.  Behind this linguist is a little woman, whose age might be twenty or sixty, for her face is so unutterably sad and immovable in expression that there is not a line in it that tells you anything but that there is to this little woman a bitterly sad, mean, beastly world.  She must be grieving over mankind.  It is her duty to see that no spoon is lost, and not an orange or banana wasted, and her mournful eyes are fixed with the intensity of despair upon the incompetent waiters, who, when hard pressed by wild shouts from American officers, frantic for lack of proper nourishment, fall into a panic and dance and squeal at each other; and then the woman of fixed sorrow, her left shoulder thin and copper-colored, thrust from her low-necked dress, her right shoulder protected, is in the midst of the pack, with a gliding bound and the ferocity of a cat, the sadness of her face taking on a tinge of long-suffering rage.  She whirls the fools here and there as they are wanted.  Having disentangled the snarl, she returns to the door from which her eyes command both the pantry and the dining-room to renew her solemn round of mournful vigilance.  The Americans are outside her jurisdiction.  She has no more idea what they are than Christopher Columbus, when he was discovering America, knew where he was going.  When Francisco does not know what the language (English) hurled at him means he has a far-away look, and may be listening to the angels sing, for he is plaintive and inexpressive.  He looks so sorry that Americans cannot speak their own language as he speaks English!  But there are phrases delivered by Americans that he understands, such as, “Blankety, blank, blank—­you all come here.”  Francisco does not go there, but with humble step elsewhere, affecting to find a pressing case for his intervention, but when he can no longer avoid your eye catching him he smiles a sweet but most superior smile, such as becomes one who speaks English and is the responsible man about the house.

There never was one who did more on a capital of one hundred words.  His labors have been lightened slightly, for the Americans have picked up a few Spanish words, such as, “Ha mucher, mucher—­don’t you know?  Hielo, hielo!” Hielo is ice, and after the “mucher” is duly digested the average waiter comes, by and by, with a lump as big as a hen’s egg and is amazed by the shouts continuing “hielo, hielo!” pronounced much like another and wicked word.

“Oh, blanketination mucher mucher hielo!” The Filipinos cannot contemplate lightly the consumption of slabs of ice.  The last words I heard in the dining-room of the Hotel Oriental were from a soldier with two stars on each shoulder:  “Francisco, oh, Francisco,” and the little woman with left shoulder exposed turned her despairing face to the wall, her sorrow too deep for words or for weeping.