“Oh, really, you know, I couldn’t,” replied dauntless Joseph. “I might get arrested or spanked or something—and sent home to mother before I get properly shot. Oh! it wouldn’t do at all.”
No, it wouldn’t do. It would free only a single Cuban, Narcissa. He must free the whole Cuban people, caboodle, and perish in the attempt.
⁂
He was at the theatre, teatro, when he first saw the Shawl—that orange, blue, emerald, scarlet, magenta, vermilion, crimson atrocity. Incidentally, there was a woman inside it, La Clavel, the dancer. Joseph thought it was the woman who thrilled him until he could support it no longer—it made him so ashamed of himself! But it wasn’t. It was the Shawl, for he was—Joseph.
He went to her room, sat there, day after day. They talked, conversed, interminably—and that was all. Once she kissed him and was severely frost-bitten. He was annoyed, seriously, and told her he didn’t know what she would think of him for letting her do a thing like that.
She gave him messages for his friends, the Fabians, cunctators, who conspired so sweetly to pass the time until 1898. Joseph felt that he was just the cutest little plotter in all Cuba. Oh! it was grand!
⁂
He was in her room when Santaclaus entered, Capitan Santaclaus, one of the rudest of the rude Spaniards.
“You are conspiring against the King, el Rey,” said Santaclaus. “You and your young devotee, little Josie here. You will both be killed. It will be very enjoyable.”
The time had come! Santaclaus, while not the Capitan-General, was notably well equipped for the proper reception of the sacred bullet. Joseph hoisted out the artillery, leveled it, pulled the trigger. Click! Nothing more. Joseph stared dully at the faithless weapon. “Oh, sugar! You’re a mean old thing!” was all he said.