Bat said to Ferd, “First day in Mexico. Nothing would do except tequila.”

“Right as rain.”

“Tequila, por favor,” Bat said to the bartender.

The other nodded, turned and secured a bottle of the white liquid nuclear bomb, a saucer of limes cut into quarters and a shaker of salt.

He muttered, barely audibly, “Salud,” and turned away.

“Jesus,” Ferd said. “The hospitality around here is boundless.”

Both Bat and Ferd had been in the country before and knew the routine. They poured themselves drinks that would have been called triples in the States into the shot glasses, took up the salt in turn and sprinkled a touch of it on the back of their left hands. They touched their tongues to the salt, tossed the tequila back in one fell swoop, then grabbed up a quarter of the lime and bit into it.

“Wow!” Ferd said, half in appreciation, half in objection to the strength of the fiery product of the maguey plant.

The Mexican, standing nearest to them at Bat’s left, sneered and said in passable English, “Ah, not enough macho for tequila, eh, gringo?”

Ferd hesitated for a moment. Finally, he said to Bat, “Well, we came here to learn. What does macho mean?”

Bat said quietly, “Manliness, more or less. The quality of being a real man.” He was nibbling unhappily at his lower lip.

“And gringo?”

“It’s a derogatory word for an American. Why it should be derogatory, I wouldn’t know. Evidently, it comes down from the Mexican War days. When the American troops invaded from Texas and Vera Cruz one of the popular songs of the day was Robert Burns’ “Green Grow the Rushes, Oh” and the Americans sang it as a marching tune. The Mexicans of the time took the first two words and called the unwelcome invaders ‘green grows’, or ‘gringos’. It bears a sneering connotation.”

“Thanks for the lecture,” Ferd said politely. He turned to the Mexican. “And you’re a greaser.”