For no black man’s effrontery.
How long are these Dagoes going to keep us waiting? We’re twenty minutes late as it is. Hasta mañana; that’s always the way with these Dagoes. They got no sense of the value of time, even the good ones. That’s singing to their guitars instead of sound commercial competition. We shall be late, setting out.”
“Here’s El Chico, anyway,” the other said. “And even if it goes the twenty rounds, we shall have time enough for Mr. Bloody Kingsborough.”
The little man seemed scared at the mention of the name, and glanced back, over his shoulder, to see whether either Sard or Captain Cary had noticed.
“Hush, Sumecta,” he said. “No names.”
“He doesn’t understand Spanish,” Sumecta replied, meaning Sard. “And if he does, what odds?” He glanced back at Sard, whose face seemed intent upon the Carib, then just entering the ring. Sumecta’s eyes followed Sard’s to the Carib: he spat, turned to Mr. Wiskey and said, in a low voice:
“He won’t have much show.”
“Who, El Chico or Mr. K.?”
“I meant El Chico; but Mr. K. won’t have much.”
“Have much!” Mr. Wiskey answered; “he’ll have about as much show as a cat in hell without claws. When it’s peace, he has a show, but when it’s war, he’s got to go.”