“Say, how long are you going to let him do that?” I ask.
“Let him do it!... You don’t mean that, Margis. He won’t blow on his sauerkraut this evening.”
“Wait and see what sort of a menu we’re going to serve that ace.”
It was Grizard, an actor in the suburban theaters, speaking. He looks like the best natured and quietest of men, but he is a pitiless pointer who never lets his prey escape.
“Let me play a little, Margis. See how pretty he is, how fine, and how well he flies. It is too bad, a pretty little canary like that.”
“Ah! Attention, ladies and gentlemen. Two turns, and at three we will commence. You’ll see what you will see.”
“On with the music.”
And the music begins the dance. First, come slow shots, rhythmic and irregular tac-tacs, spaced like the prelude to a slow waltz. Grizard is searching for the tune; then, gradually, he accelerates the time, and the tac-tac becomes faster.
Now he has the aeroplane in his field of fire ... the bullets dance around him in a ring of fire, without a break ... the dance of death!