Rogelio hesitated, snuffled, and with dignity began again.
"Prisoner—"
"Cook, I tell thee!" Pedro interrupted, explosively. "Thy prisoner hath flown—flown with three legs, one a stolen, and that one mine—not my best, in truth, only my second best; but nevertheless most grievously wanted. Hast seen it, Veedor?"
Rogelio's mind was not alert. It could pursue a single line of thought with a sort of porcine tenacity, but the intrusion of a second idea produced derangement requiring time to readjust. His attention, now drawn to Pedro's lost peg and his uncanny-looking stump, was not readily disengaged. He stood surveying the cook's maimed member with fascination until in the slow revolution of his thoughts they should come back to their former connection. This achieved, he began again.
"Prisoner—"
"Cook!" shouted Pedro, jerking himself erect and glaring at the veedor. The latter stopped, and Pizarro interfered.
"Be done, Pedro!" he commanded, angrily. "Cease interruptions and allow the veedor to proceed. Continue, Veedor."
"Prisoner!" squeaked the veedor.
"Cook!" roared Pedro, savagely.
"Oh, in the devil's name, let him have his way!" Almagro broke in. "Call him cook—anything—but begin, Rogelio!"