_Mira, senores_! Of the blood
that flowed in the veins of Pablo Artelan, thirty-one-thirty-seconds
was Indian, but the other one-thirty-second was composed of equal parts
of Latin romance and conceit.
Pablo's great moment had arrived. Lowly peon that he was, he knew
himself at this moment to be a most important personage; death would
have been preferable to the weakness of having failed to take advantage
of it.
"Why I know, Senor Parker?" Pablo laughed briefly, lightly,
mirthlessly, his cacchination carefully designed to convey the
impression that he considered the question extremely superfluous. With
exasperating deliberation he drew forth his little bag of tobacco and a
brown cigarette paper; he smiled as he dusted into the cigarette paper
the requisite amount of tobacco. With one hand he rolled the
cigarette; while wetting the flap with his garrulous tongue, he gazed
out upon the San Gregorio as one who looks beyond a lifted veil.
He answered his own question. "Well, _senor_--and you, _senora_! I
tell you. _Por nada_--forgeeve; please, I speak the Spanish--for
notheeng, those boy he poke weeth hee's thumb the rib of me."
"No?" cried John Parker, feigning profound amazement.
"_Es verdad_. Eet ees true, _senor_. Those boy hee's happy, no? Eh?"
"Apparently."
"You bet you my life. Well, las' night those boy hee's peench weeth
his thumb an' theese fingair--what you suppose?"
"I give it up, Pablo.
Pages:
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343