After plowing through the field for about two hundred feet the car came to a final stop, with a little jolt.
“Santa Maria! Caramba!” yelled a voice and then followed such a string of Spanish that the boys thought they had run down a whole camp of Mexican herders.
“Did we hit any one?” asked Jerry, peering forward as well as he could through the tall grass.
“Caramba! Hit any one! The Americano pirates have killed Don Elvardo!” exclaimed the unseen one. “You have broken—!” and then followed such a confusion of words that the boys could not understand.
“Have we broken your leg?” asked Jerry, speaking in Spanish this time.
“Santa Maria! No! You have broken the cigarette I just rolled!” and with that the grass parted in front of the auto, and a little Mexican, wearing a suit profusely trimmed with silver braid, showed himself.
The boys felt like laughing as they beheld the woe-begone face of Don Elvardo. In his hand he held the remains of a cigarette.
“Behold!” he went on tragically. “I am peacefully walking in my field, looking over my crop of Pampas, when I feel a desire to smoke. I sit me down and roll a cigarette. I am about to light it, when—Santa Maria! There is a rushing sound of ten thousand imps of darkness. My grass is mowed down as if by a sickle in the hands of a giant. I turn in fear! I see something coming! I can not tell what it is, for the tall grass hides it! I turn to flee! The infernal thing keeps after me! Presto! Caramba! It hits me so—”
Don Elvardo illustrated by slapping himself vigorously on the thigh.