“Easy, pal,” said the latter. “I wanta be paid for me damage. Stick around.”
Bob laughed. “You’ll be paid. Don’t worry. But where did Cap—where did our friend go?”
The jehu explained. Frank and Jack, little worse for the accident, with the exception of minor body bruises, joined Bob on the sidewalk, and likewise received the benefit of the explanation.
“Old fellow was in a tearin’ hurry to git some body seems he was a-chasin’, far as I could make out,” said the jehu.
“Well, Cap’ll be back,” laughed Bob. “Nothing to do but wait.” He gazed at the crowd surrounding them, half a hundred or more, and sighed. “Worse than Fifth Avenue,” he said. “I guess any time an accident happens, no matter where it is, a crowd gathers.”
The crowd parted to make way for a Mexican policeman, swarthy, medium-sized, heavy-mustached, swinging a long nightstick and with the handles of two six-shooters protruding at his sides. He started to question them haltingly in broken English, but at his first words Jack addressed him in Spanish. The policeman’s face lighted up, and he nodded violently as Jack continued in a voice so low that the crowd could not hear. Then he turned and with voice and club-thrust began to scatter the crowd.
The tourists seeing the show was over, so to speak, turned away, and the Mexican barflies shuffled off. Finally, the crowd was dispelled, and the policeman returned and Jack shook hands with him gravely, only a slight twitching at the corners of his mouth betraying to his companions that he nursed a secret sense of amusement. Then, swinging his stick in a jaunty salute, the policeman made off with a “Mil’ gracias, senor,” to which Jack responded with “Buenos noches.”
“How much d’ye give ’im?” asked the jehu, leering wisely and spitting into the street.
Jack was inclined to resent the familiarity, but shrugged and replied:
“Five dollars.”