I chucked my victim as far as I could throw him. "Run, you fool!" I says, and he scuttled out of that like a jack-rabbit.
He was gone before my friend could start after him. I got the full blast of the disappointment.
"I do not quite understand, Señor," says he, with his hand on his knife.
"Hold!" says I, "you've no call to jump me—I can't stand for a man being slit in cold blood—no offense meant."
"I forget your service," says he. "Pardon—here ees my han'." We shook hands. "But you have made the foolish thing," he says. "There ees a man who ees to be keeled dead, and you let heem go—that ees more foolish as to let the Fer-de-lance free."
"Well, I know," says I, "I suppose you're right, but my ideas ain't quite foreign enough yet."
He smiled. "Your largeness made me mistake," says he. "I see you are a gentleman not of so many years, but of the heart strong and the arm stronger—you play with that man—chuckee—chuckee—chuckee—like hees mother. Eet was lovelee. May I ask the name?"
"William De La Tour Saunders," says I, "commonly called Bill."
"Ah, Beel!" says he, "I r-r-remember. Here is Antonio Oriñez—your frien' when you wish."
"Well, Mr. Oriñez," says I, "hadn't we better be walking along? You're bleeding pretty free."