“Oh, yes, I will. I’ll beat it at noon on the stage.”
“You’ll leave the country?”
Mr. Daisy swept his cap to the other ear and winked. “Cameofladge,” he whispered mysteriously.
“Oh, I see! And what am I to do after telling her?”
Again Mr. Daisy winked. “Watch how she takes it,” he instructed. “And then begin pullin’ a lotta patter about what a pity it is—see—and what good chances Mr. Daisy had right here on this ole desert, but threw ’em all away because of a woman.” Mr. Daisy winked once more. “Pull that on ’er,” he added, “and then set on the lid and wait for the cuckoo to come outa her clock. And if she begins puttin’ on one o’ these I’m-to-blame performances, you tell her you maybe could telephone to Opaco in time to stop Mr. Daisy; and maybe he’d come back in Santa Claus’ sleigh.”
“Why, I don’t know what you mean at all!”
Mr. Daisy scratched a pitcher-handle ear with one finger, then jumped at the water cock, as his tank was running over.
“I mean,” he told Manzanita, “that Mr. Daisy might be persuaded to come back and begat a little kick into a certain gypo outfit you an’ me know about, ma’am.”
“And shall I telephone you?”
“Well—now—that won’t be hardly necessary, ma’am—’cause I’m comin’ back, anyway. But all the time I’m gone, you keep on pullin’ that what-a-pity racket—see?”