“Half cracked about her,” puts in Bill. “And if she won’t have him, ’r her maw interferes, I’m feared they’ll be a tragedy.”
“Low ruffian!” says Boston.
Later on, about ten o’clock, say, I was passin’ the rest’rant, and I heerd a man singin’––
| “Luz de mi alma! Luz de mi vida!” |
and that somethin’ was “despedosin’” his heart. (I savvy the lingo pretty good.)
Wal, it was that dog-goned cholo,–under Carlota’s winda, and he had a guitar. Thunderation! that wasn’t in our program!
“Say, you!” I hollered.
He shut up and come over, lookin’ kinda as if he’d been ketched stealin’ sheep, but grinnin’ so hard his eyes was plumb closed–the mean, little, wall-eyed, bow-laigged swine!
“Pedro,” I says, “you’ boss likely wants you. Hit the ties.” ’Cause, mebbe Carlota ’d git mad at his yelpin,’ and knock the hull scheme galley-west.
Talk about you’ cheek! Next night, that greaser and his guitar was doin’ business at the ole stand. I let him alone. Carlota seemed t’ like it. Anyhow, she didn’t hand him out no hot soap suds through the winda, ’r no chairs and tables.