"Mozo—mozo!" shouted Pedro to the waiter, "a glass for the Captain!"
The others also had been to the theater, and like him, had left during the intermission following the dance. Naturally the dancer formed the sole topic of conversation.
"Had the Señor Capitan seen the Chiquita—had he ever seen such dancing before—what did he think of her?" And by the time Carlos appeared on the scene, all agreed that the latter's fortune was made—that he would soon desert the sleepy old town for a tour of the world with his newly found star of the footlights.
"A tour of the world—with the Chiquita?" echoed Carlos, a fat, broad-shouldered little man of mixed blood, pausing and pulling back a chair in the act of seating himself at the table.
"Dios! if such a thing were possible," he exclaimed, pushing his hat on the back of his head and surveying his companions with critical eyes, "I would not exchange it for the richest gold mine in Mexico! But," he added, seating himself at the table, "you don't know the Chiquita, mis amigos. She is made of different stuff than that of the women who dance for a living."
To this last remark the company agreed.
"Caramba—how she danced!" he continued, taking a sip of pulque. "Had the house been as large as the plaza and the price of the seats doubled, there would not have been standing room left to accommodate the spectators."
"Aye!" broke in Miguel Torreno, a dark, wizened old Mexican with a face resembling a monkey's, "they say a thousand people were turned away at the doors."
"A thousand? Half the town, you mean!" returned Carlos, rolling a cigarillo between the tips of his stubby fingers.
"A pretty penny this dance of the Chiquita's must have cost you, Carlos Moreno," continued Miguel, his head cocked knowingly on one side, while he squinted over the rim of his glass between puffs of cigarette smoke.