“Oh, bother!” he said, and stopped, irresolute.
“What do you mean anyway, actin’ the way you do?” demanded Jones, mopping his forehead. “Wouldn’t it sound silly, if I lay a-dyin’, for you to threaten me with jail and shootin’ and law? They’d sound real futile, wouldn’t they? Well, I’m dying right now. I’ve been a long time at it; but there ain’t no cure for what ails me but death. I refer, of course, to the malady of living.”
“Damn your eyes!” cried the exasperated King of Saragossa; and he began rapidly to retrace his steps.
“And so,” continued the dying man, keeping pace, “I don’t never back up. When I start out to blackmail a man he might just as well be nice about it, ’cause I’m going to blackmail him.”
Despite himself, Baca had to laugh.
“What are you going to blackmail me for?”
“About two thousand,” said Jones.
“But what have I done?”
“Good Lord, man!” said Jones blankly. “I don’t know!”
“Come!” said Baca, and clapped his persecutor on the back. “I like a brave man, even if he is a damned fool! Come home to supper with me. I’ve got a little bachelor establishment beyond the Park, with an old Mexican hombre who can give you the best meal in town.”