"This American would die, it appears, poor madman," observed M. Malvin ingratiatingly to Carmelita.
"I do not think he will die," replied the girl. "But I think that anyone who interferes with him will do so."
The eyes of the good M. Malvin narrowed. Lay the wind in that quarter? The excellent Luigi was found out, was he? Well, there might be a successor....
Meantime the Italian had removed and methodically folded his tunic and canvas shirt. A broad belt sustained his baggy red breeches.
So it had come, had it? Well, so much the better. This American had been the fly in the ointment of his comfort too long. Why had he not strangled the insolent, or broken his back long ago? He would break him now, once and for all--maim him for life if he could; at least make a serious hospital case of him.
Bidding Malvin mount guard over his discarded garments, Rivoli stepped forth Into the middle of the large cleared space, flexing and slapping his muscles. Having done so, he looked round the crowded sides of the room for the usual applause. To his surprise none followed. He gazed about him again. Was this a selected audience? It was certainly not the audience he would have selected for himself. It appeared to consist mostly of miserabile whom he had frequently had to punish for insubordination and defiance of his orders. They should have a demonstration, that evening, of the danger of defying Luigi Rivoli.
As the American stepped forward John Bull caught his sleeve. "Take off your tunic, Buck," he said in surprise.
"Take off nix," replied the American.
"But he'll get a better hold on you," remonstrated his friend.
"I should worry," was the cryptic reply, as the speaker unbuttoned the upper part of his tunic and pushed his collar well away from his neck at the back.