Silva was doing a Nautch dance in a seven-foot ring and trying to throw a hammer. He would whirl around a dozen times or so, and then, when he tried to let the hammer fly, was so dizzy he fell on it.
With dismal regularity Fritz would knock his shins against the bar, and Silva would stagger and fall. Sometimes the vaulting pole would come down and crack the Dutch boy on the head; and, as a general thing, the Mexican would forget to let go of the hammer, and the wire would wrap around his body and the weight would hit him in the small of the back. These accidents, naturally, were hardly warranted to sweeten the temper of the would-be athletes. Fritz was exploding choppy remarks, and Silva was hissing maledictions in liquid Spanish. Finally, the inevitable happened, and during a period of rest the two began saying things about each other.
Fritz, sitting on the ground and more or less tangled up with the pole and the bar, looked over at Silva. The latter had just thrown himself to his knees, and the weight had drummed into his back with a thump that had drawn Fritz’ attention.
“Vat you try to do mit yourselluf, you greaser lopster?” shouted the scornful Fritz. “Dot veight iss for drowing, und not for pounding yourselluf your ribs on. You will not make an athletic feller in a t’ousant years.”
“Ay de mi!” flung back Silva, through his teeth. “You make big talk, but you not so much. I t’row de weight before you jump de bar, dat is cinch. Caramba! You one tub, one gringo rhi-rhi-no-cer-oos! Si, dat is all—rhi-rhi-no-cer-oos!” Silva pushed out a hand and pointed an insulting finger at Fritz. “Rhi-rhi-no-cer-oos!” he repeated, in a burst of fury and contempt.
“By shiminy grickeds,” fumed Fritz, “no greaser feller iss going to call me someding like dot! I take it your hide oudt, py shinks!”
He floundered about on the ground until he had succeeded in getting to his feet. Silva, scenting a resort to fisticuffs in the Dutch boy’s move, likewise arose. The two, separated by perhaps a dozen feet, stood glaring at each other.
“Lopster!” taunted Fritz, “greaser lopster!”
“Gringo chingado!” screeched Silva. “Rhi-rhi-no-cer-oos!”
Fritz picked up the bar and started toward the Mexican. Somehow, the bar got between his fat legs and he tripped himself and again went down. Silva, still holding the hammer, made a defensive movement with it, and the weight swung back against one of his knees. With a howl of pain he dropped the hammer and fell to rubbing his kneecap.