"Ta!" says he, shrugging his shoulders. "I am used to eet—still, I go. Thees ees not a healthy land for me."
"What was the row about?" I asked, my kid curiosity coming up.
"I cannot tell even my best frien'," he answers, smiling so pleasant there was no injury. "Quiere poqnito de aguardiente?"
"No," I says, "I'm not drinking at present—it's a promise I made." (Oh, the vanity of a boy!) "But I'll trot along with you."
He shook his head. "Do not," he says, "believe me, I have reason—can I do you any service, now?"
I was a little anxious to get on my own business. The lull from the fight had come in the shape of a seasick feeling.
"Do you know a man by the name of Saxton?" I inquired.
He gave me a quick look—a friendly look, "Arthur Saxton—tall—grande—play the violeen like the davil?"
"That's him."
"Around that corner, not far, on thees side," waving his left hand, "you see the name—eet ees a es-store for food."