“Ah! ha!” sneered Santaclaus. “You forgot to turn down the grease-cups this morning.”
It was sneerly his last sneer. Although he knew it not, he was sneering his end. La Clavel had not yet begun to fight. When she did there certainly was one turrible old battle. Joseph stood bravely by, a chair raised above his head, almost resolved to give Santaclaus a hard knock.
One round was all. Santaclaus, prostrate, prone, defunct, dead, took the count. Joseph carefully replaced the chair.
“Now look what you’ve done,” said he. “Now, remember, you killed him. I didn’t do a thing to him. Don’t tell on me—please! I came down here to get killed, nice and clean, with one bullet. I certainly don’t want to get all mussed up by a firing-squad. Mother wouldn’t like me to.”
La Clavel was arrested—tortured, shot, hung, drawn and quartered, for all Joseph knew. But she sent him the Shawl. So it was his lucky day, after all.
⁂
Pilar de Lima was a lovely little Chink. She tried it on with Joseph, but Joseph continued to be—Joseph. Andrés took her up.
“Lend me the Shawl, viejo cimo, old top!” said he. “Pilar wants it to wear at the danzon, dance.”
“No,” Joseph responded, answered.
“Mio caro compañero, my dear fellow,” protested Andrés, “please remember that The Bright Shawl is the principal character in this piece, the title rôle. It must have stage-center and the spotlight all the time. The whole show is built around it. And this is to be the climax of the third act.”