He don't say it just like that, either, but that's as near as I can get it. Anyway, you'd never recognize it as Jones.
"Well," I goes on, "I don't know of anybody around the place now who would fit your description. In fact, I don't believe there's anybody by the name of—Yes, there is one Jones here, but he can't be the party. He isn't that kind of a Jones."
"But if he is Señor Jones—who knows?" insists Don Pedro.
Then I has to stop and grin. Huh! Old Jonesey bein' suspected of ever pullin' stuff like that. Say, why not have him in and tax him with it. "Just a sec.," says I. "You can take a look yourself."
I finds Jonesey with his head in a file drawer, as usual, and without spillin' anything of the joke I leads him in and lines him up in front of Don Pedro.
"Listen, Jonesey," says I. "This gentleman comes from Havana. Were you ever there?"
"Why, ye-e-e-es. Once I was," says Jonesey, sort of draggy, as if tryin' to remember.
"You were?" says I. "How? When?"
"It—it was a long time ago," says Jonesey.
"Perdone," breaks in Don Pedro. "Were you not known as Señor El Capitan?"