"Try 'em on American music," he cried, as every one but Bud went away in disgust, "the latest rag from Broadwa-ay, New York. Here, gimme that guitar, hombre, and listen to this now!"
He picked out a clever bit of syncopation and pitched his voice to a heady twang:
"Down in the garden where the red roses grow,
Oh my, I long to go!
Pluck me like a flower, cuddle me an hour,
Lovie, let me learn the Rose Red Ra-ag!"
There was some swing to that, and it seemed to make an impression, for just as he was well started on the chorus the slats of one of the shutters parted and a patch of white shone through the spaces. It was the ladies, then, who were getting interested! Phil wailed on:
"Swee-eet honey-bee, be sweet to me!
My heart is free, but here's the key!"
And then, positively, he could see that patch of white beat time. He took heart of grace at that and sang on to the end, and at a suggestion of clapping in dumb-show he gave an encore and ragged it over again.
"Ev'rybody's doin' it, doin' it, doin' it!'" he began, as the shadow dance ceased.
"'Honey, I declare, it's a bear, it's a bear, it's a bear!'" he continued temptingly, and was well on his way to further extravagancies when the figure in white swiftly vanished and a door slammed hard inside the house.
Several minutes later the form of Don Juan appeared at the lower door, and in no uncertain tones he requested them to cease.
"The Señor Aragon informs me," he said, "that your music annoys him."