"W--where will you cut him?" he asked, pleasantly, more to make
conversation than from any lingering question as to the precise
location.
"Here." Carara turned the blade against himself, and traced a
cross upon his front, whereupon the trainer gurgled and laid
protecting hands upon his protruding abdomen. "You spik Spanish?"
"No." Glass shook his head.
"But you understan' w'at I try to say?"
"Yes--oh yes--I'm hep all right."
"And the Senor Fat will r-r-re-member?"
"Sure!" Glass sighed miserably, and tearing his eyes away from
the glittering blade, rolled them toward his employer. "I don't
want her! Mr. Speed knows I don't want her!"
Carara bowed. "And the Fat Senor will not spik wit' her again?"
"No!"
"_Gracias, Senor!_ I thank you!"
"You're welcome!" agreed the New Yorker, with repressed feeling.
"_Adios! Adios,_ Senor Speed!"
"Good-bye!" exclaimed the two in chorus.
Carara returned the knife to its hiding-place, swept the floor
gracefully with his sombrero, then placing the spangled head-
piece at an exact angle upon his raven locks, lounged out, his
silver spurs tinkling in the silence.
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