"When you speak to me, Gringo," bellowed Pedro Gato, "you will—"
"Stop, Greaser!" shot back Tom, sternly, though he did not even stir or raise his hands.
"Greaser?" bellowed Pedro Gato. "That is foul insult!"
"Not more so than to call me a Gringo," Tom Reade went on coolly. "So we are even, though I feel rather debased to have used such a word. Gato, if you make the mistake, again, of using an offensive term when addressing me, I shall—well, I may show a somewhat violent streak."
"You?" sneered Gato. Then something in the humor of the situation appealed to him. He threw back his head and laughed loudly.
"Gringo," he began, "you will—"
"Stop that line of talk, fellow," commanded Tom quietly. "When you address me, be good enough to say either 'senor' or 'sir.' I am not usually as disagreeable as this in dealing with my fellow men, but you have begun wrong with us, Gato, and the first thing you'll have to learn to do will be to treat us with proper courtesy."
From the shaft entrance showed the faces of four grinning, wondering Mexicans of the usual type. The talk had proceeded in Spanish, and they had been able to follow it.
As for the mine manager, his bronzed face was distorted with rage.
The veins near his forehead were swelling. With a sudden roar,
Pedro Gato sprang forward, aiming a blow with his open right hand
at Reade's face.
Bump! That blow failed to land. It was Gato, instead, who landed.
He went down on his back, striking the ground with jarring force.