Brother Anthony is just a little bit--ah--nutty, but
harmless. He'll want to know how many men I've killed, and I'll tell him
two hundred and nineteen. He has a leaning toward odd numbers, as
tending more toward exactitude. Right away, he'll go into the chapel and
pray for their souls, and while he's at this pious exercise, Father
Dominic will dig up a bottle of old wine that's too good for a nut like
Brother Anthony, and we'll sit on a bench in the mission garden in the
shade of the largest bougainvillea in the world and tuck away the wine.
Between tucks, Father Dominic will inquire casually into the state of my
soul, and the information thus elicited will scandalize the old saint.
The only way I can square myself is to go into the chapel with them and
give thanks for my escape from the Bolsheviki.
"By that time, it will be a quarter of seven and dark, so Father Dominic
will crank up a prehistoric little automobile my father gave him in order
that he might spread himself over San Marcos County on Sundays and say
two masses. I have a notion that the task of keeping that old car in
running order has upset Brother Anthony's mental balance. He used to be
a blacksmith's helper in El Toro in his youth, and therefore is supposed
to be a mechanic in his old age."
"Then the old padre drives you home, eh?" the captain suggested.
"He does. Providentially, it is now the cool of the evening.
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