"Ah," said Don Jose gravely, "you would be paid before! Good; for how much shall you value ALL you have in your bar?"
Don Jose's imperturbability evidently shook the landlord's faith in the soundness of his own position. He looked at his guest critically and audaciously.
"It cost me two hundred dollars to fit it up," he said curtly.
Don Jose rose, and, taking a buckskin purse from his saddle-bag, counted out four slugs[1] and handed them to the stupefied Jenkinson. The next moment, however, his host recovered himself, and casting the slugs back on the little table, brought his fist down with an emphasis that made them dance.
"But, look yer—suppose I want this thing stopped—you hear me—STOPPED—now."
"That would be interfering with the liberty of the subject, my good Jenkinson—which God forbid!" said Don Jose calmly. "Moreover, it is the custom of the Americanos—a habit of my friend Roberto—a necessity of his existence—and so recognized of his friends. Patience and courage, Senor Jenkinson. Stay—ah, I comprehend! you have—of a possibility—a wife?"
"No, I'm a widower," said Jenkinson sharply.
"Then I congratulate you. My friend Roberto would have kissed her. It is also of his habit. Truly you have escaped much. I embrace you, Jenkinson."
He threw his arms gravely around Jenkinson, in whose astounded face at last an expression of dry humor faintly dawned. After a moment's survey of Don Jose's impenetrable gravity, he coolly gathered up the gold coins, and saying that he would assess the damages and return the difference, he left the room as abruptly as he had entered it.
But Don Jose was not destined to remain long in peaceful study of the American Constitution. He had barely taken up the book again and renewed his serious contemplation of its excellences when there was another knock at his door. This time, in obedience to his invitation to enter, the new visitor approached with more deliberation and a certain formality.