“Listen, my Georgio,” she began at last, “I have considered, and I say you have done foolishly to scatter the soldiers about the city to hurry and to inquire, so that the people become excited. Hear in the Plaza already how they cry out like children, and each one is angry at a different thing.”
The Minister started, and listened, and wiped his wet forehead with his sleeve. The roar in the Plaza was increasing. He sprang to his feet, and puffed, and he says:
“The military is scattered! It is a mob! I must go! Attend me, my wife!”
But Flannagan enclosed his collar. “Respict for me own intherests,” he says, “is me proudest virtue. Would ye have me missin' the sight of a rivolution from a private box, an' the shpectacle of explodin' liberty? An' ye'll be havin' me blood to-morry by the tomb of your mother? Ah, now!”
“Let me go!” he says, shrieking and struggling. “I accept your apology! Say no more!”
Flannagan looked at Madame Bill. The crowd was shouting more in unison now. They says, “Vivo Alvarez!” and “Bill al fuego!” which the latter means, as you or I might say, “To hell with Bill!” The Minister shivered and struggled, but more moderate.
“The military will be confused, will do nothing without order!” he pleaded to Madame Bill.
“The military,” says the tin-type man, from the shutters, speaking through his nose, soft and scornful, “they appear to feel tolerable good. There's a batch of 'em on the steps under here, a-sittin' in their sins, and shoutin' 'Down with Bill!' very hearty like.”
“Mutiny!” howled the Minister. “Alas!” and he sat down, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and panted, and appeared more composed.
Flannagan sat down, too. “I do be feelin' warm the same,” he says. “Shall we have a drink?”