Chapter 35: - Page 6 of 6

Well, it’s worse than to spit on the Host on Good Friday, was the grave reply. You remember the word ispichoso ^[5] which when applied to a man is enough to have the civil-guards take him into exile or put him in jail well, plibustiero is much worse. According to what the telegrapher and the directorcillo said, plibustiero, said by a Christian, a curate, or a Spaniard to another Christian like us is a santusdeus with requimiternam, ^[6] for if they ever call you a plibustiero then you’d better get yourself shriven and pay your debts, since nothing remains for you but to be hanged. You know whether the telegrapher and the directorcillo ought to be informed; one talks with wires and the other knows Spanish and works only with a pen. All were appalled.

May they force me to wear shoes and in all my life to drink nothing but that vile stuff they call beer, if I ever let myself be called pelbistero! swore the countryman, clenching his fists. What, rich as Don Crisostomo is, knowing Spanish as he does, and able to eat fast with a knife and spoon, I’d laugh at five curates!

The next civil-guard I catch stealing my chickens I’m going to call palabistiero, then I’ll go to confession at once, murmured one of the rustics in a low voice as he withdrew from the group.