The old majordomo was wrapped in aboriginal dignity.
His Indian blood bade him greet Don Mike as casually as if the latter
had merely been sojourning in El Toro the past two years, but the faint
strain of Spanish in him dictated a different course as Don Mike
stepped briskly up to him with outstretched hand and greeted him
affectionately in Spanish. Off came the weather-stained old sombrero,
flung to the ground beside him, as Pablo dropped on his knees, seized
his master's hand, and bowed his head over it.
"Don Miguel," he said, "my life is yours."
"I know it, you blessed old scalawag!" Don Mike replied in English, and
ruffled the grizzled old head before passing on to the expectant
Carolina, who folded him tightly in her arms and wept soundlessly when
he kissed her leathery cheek. While he was murmuring words of comfort
to her, Pablo got up on his feet and recovered his hat.
"You see," he said to Kay, in a confidential tone, "Don Miguel Jose
Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel loves us. Never no woman those boy kees
since hees mother die twenty year before. So Carolina have the great
honor like me. Yes!"
"Oh, but you haven't seen him kiss his sweetheart," Kay bantered the
old man--and then blushed, in the guilty knowledge that her badinage
had really been inspired by a sudden desire to learn whether Don Mike
had a sweetheart or not. Pablo promptly and profanely disillusioned
her.
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