"Es verdad. Eet ees true, señor. Those boy hee's happy, no? Eh?"
"Apparently."
"You bet you my life. Well, las' night those boy hee's peench weeth his thumb an' theese fingair—what you suppose?"
"I give it up, Pablo."
Pablo wiped away with a saddle-colored paw a benignant and paternal smile. He wagged his head and scuffed his heel in the dirt. He feasted his soul on the sensation that was his.
"Those boy hee's peench—" a dramatic pause. Then:
"Eef you tell to Don Miguel those things I tol' you—Santa Marias—Hees cut my throat."
"We will respect your confidence, Pablo," Mrs. Parker hastened to assure the traitor.
"All right. Then I tol' to you what those boy peench—weeth hees thumb an' thees fingair. Mira. Like thees."
"Cut out the pantomime and disgorge the information, for the love of heaven," Parker pleaded.