So Billy told her, for there are some women in this world to whom a man with a poker face, the imagination of a Verne, and the histrionic art of an Irving cannot—nay, dare not—tell a lie. “I would much rather have been visited with a plague of boils, like our old friend, the late Job, than have to tell you this, Miss Ruey,” Bill concluded his recital. “Man proposes, but God disposes, and you're here and bound to learn the truth sooner or later. Mother isn't a lady and she knows it, but take it from me, Miss Ruey, she's a grand old piece of work. She's a scout—a ring-tailed sport—a regular individual and game as a gander.”
“In other words,” Dolores replied smilingly, “she has a heart of gold.”
“Twenty-four carat, all wool and a yard wide,” Billy declared, mixed-metaphorically.
“And I mustn't call at El Buen Amigo, Mr. Geary?”
“Perish the thought! Mother must call on you. El Buen Amigo is what you might term a hotel for tropical tramps of the masculine sex. Nearly all of Mother's guests have a past, you know. They're the submerged white tenth of Sobrante.”
“Then my benefactor must call to see me here?” Billy nodded. “When will you bring her here?”
Billy reflected that Mother Jenks had been up rather late the night before and that trade in the cantina of El Buen Amigo had been unusually brisk; so since he desired to exhibit the old lady at her best, he concluded it might be well to spar for wind.
“To-morrow at ten,” he declared. Dolores inclined her head. Something told her she had better leave all future details to the amiable William.
“I take it you are a guest at El Buen Amigo, Mr. Geary,” she continued.
“Oh, yes. I've been a guest for about two weeks now; before that I was an encumbrance. Now I'm paying my way—thanks to an old side-kicker of mine, Jack Webster.”