Father Dominic looked the rejuvenated
ruin over with prideful eyes and his saintly old face puckered in a
smile.
"Brother Anthony," he declared to that mildly crack-brained person,
"that little conveyance has been responsible for many a furious
exhibition of temper on your part. But God is good. He will forgive
you, and has He not proved it by moving our dear Don Mike to save you
from the plague of repairing it for many months to come?"
Brother Anthony, whose sense of humor, had he ever possessed one, had
long since been ruined in his battles with Father Dominic's automobile,
raised a dour face.
"Speaking of Don Miguel, I am informed that our young Don Miguel has
gone to Baja California, there to race Panchito publicly for a purse of
ten thousand dollars gold. I would, Father Dominic, that I might see
that race."
Father Dominic laid his hand on poor Brother Anthony's shoulder.
"Because you have suffered for righteousness' sake, Brother Anthony,
your wish shall be granted. Tomorrow you shall drive Pablo and
Carolina and me to Tia Juana in Baja California to see Panchito race on
the afternoon of Thanksgiving Day. We will attend mass in San Diego in
the morning and pray for victory for him and his glorious young master."
Big tears stood in Brother Anthony's eyes. At last! At last! Poor
Brother Anthony was a human being, albeit his reason tottered on its
throne at certain times of the moon.
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