The drunken man slowly opened his eyes and Rivoli put down his glass with a fierce frown.
"And who invented that paltry, silly lie?" he asked, and laughed scornfully. Madame pointed a fat forefinger at the Bucking Bronco who leant, head on fist, regarding Rivoli with a sardonic smile.
"Sure thing, Loojey. I'm spreadin' the glad joyous tidin's, as haow yure precious life has been saved, all over the whole caboodle," and proceeded to translate.
"Oh, is that the plot?" replied the Italian. "Is that the best lie the gang of you could hatch? Corpo di Bacco! It's a poor one. Couldn't the lot of you think of a likelier tale than that?"
The Bucking Bronco opined as haow thar was nuthin' like the trewth.
"Look you," said the Italian to Madame, and the assembled loungers. "This grey English cur--pot-valiant--comes yapping at me, being in his cups, and challenges me, me, Luigi Rivoli, to fight. I say: 'Go dig your grave, dog,' and he goes. I have not seen him since, but on all hands I hear that he has arranged with this strumpet of the Café to say that she has begged my life of him," and Luigi Rivoli roared with laughter at the idea. "Now listen you, and spread this truth abroad.... Madame will excuse me," and he turned with his stage bow to Madame.... "I am no plaster saint, I am a Légionnaire. Sometimes I go to this Café--I admit it," and again turning to Madame, he laid his hand upon his heart. "Madame," he appealed, "I have no home, no wife, no fireside to which to be faithful.... And as I honestly admit I visit this Café. The girl is glad of my custom and possibly a little honoured--of that I would say nothing.... Accidents will happen to the bravest and most skilful of men in duels. The girl begged me not to fight. 'You are my best customer,' said she, 'and the handsomest of all my patrons,' and carried on as such wenches do, when trade is threatened. 'Peace, woman,' said I, 'trouble me not, or I go to Zuleika across the way.' ... She then took another line. 'Look you, Signor,' said she, 'this old fool, Boule, comes to me when he has money; and he drinks here every night. Spare his miserable carcase for what I make out of it,' and with a laugh I gave the girl my franc and half-promise.... Still, what is one's word to a wanton? I may shoot the dog yet, if he and his friends be not careful how they lie."
The drunken man had turned his face on to his arms. No one but the American and 'Erb noticed that his body was shaken convulsively. Perhaps with drunken laughter?
"Tole yer so, Cocky," bawled 'Erb in his ear. "You'll be sick as David's sow in a minnit, 'an' we'll all git blue-blind, paralytic drunk,'" and rising to his feet 'Erb lifted up his voice in song to the effect that--
"White wings they never grow whiskers,
They kerry me cheerily over the sea
To ye Banks and Braes o' Bonny Doon
Where we drew 'is club money this mornin'.
Witin' to 'ear the verdick on the boy in the prisoner's dock
When Levi may I menshun drew my perlite attenshun
To the tick of 'is grandfarver's clock.
Ninety years wivaht stumblin', Tick, Tick, Tick,--
Ninety years wivaht grumblin', gently does the trick,
When it stopped short, never to go agine
Till the ole man died.
An' ef yer wants ter know the time, git yer 'air cut."
For the moment 'Erb was the centre of interest, though not half a dozen men in the room understood the words of what the vast majority supposed to be a wild lament or dirge.