It was two dollars and fifty
cents! Scandalous! He was about to beat the gatekeeper down; surely
the management had special rates for prelates--
A hand fell on his shoulder and Don Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriaga
Farrel was gazing down at him with beaming eyes.
"Perhaps, Father Dominic," he suggested in Spanish and employing the
old-fashioned courtly tone of the _haciendado_, "you will permit me the
great honor of entertaining you." And he dropped a ten-dollar bill in
the cash box and ushered the four _San Gregorianos_ through the
turn-stile.
"My son, my son," murmured Father Dominic. "What means this
unaccustomed dress? One would think you dwelt in the City of Mexico.
You are unshaven--you resemble a loafer in _cantinas_. That _sombrero_
is, perhaps, fit for a bandit like Pancho Villa, but, my son, you are
an American gentleman. Your beloved grandfather and your equally
beloved father never assumed the dress of our people--"
"Hush! I'm a wild and woolly Mexican sport for a day, padre. Say
nothing and bid the others be silent and make no comment. Come with me
to the grandstand, all of you, and look at the races. Panchito will
not appear until the fifth race."
Father Dominic bent upon Brother Anthony a glance which had the effect
of propelling the brother out of earshot, whereupon the old friar took
his young friend by the arm and lifted his seamed, sweet old face
toward him with all the _insouciance_ of a child.
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