"Caramba! what a man!" she gasped. "Send those two donkeys trotting off like that! Cá!" She put her hand on her stomach and doubled again.
Strawbridge shook her out of her mirth.
"Here, cut it out! How can we get into this garden?" He looked up the sheer wall. "How in hell are we ever going to get in?!"
The girl looked up.
"I got out on that tree." She pointed at an overhanging bough.
"Well—damn it!—you see you can't reach it now. You couldn't reach that from the top of the wall!"
"No, señor."
The drummer took the girl by the arm as if he meant to throw her over, and moved distractedly back along the wall.
"I wonder if you could hold on to that Bougainvillea," he speculated hurriedly. "The only thing I see to do is to boost you up to it. We can try it."
They hurried up under the bush. Strawbridge picked her up bodily with his good hand and the elbow of his bad arm. He got her to his shoulder, put one hand under her, and shoved upward with his whole strength. The smell of the kitchen enveloped him. Her sandaled feet were on his shoulders; then she stepped on his head. Flickers of flame danced before his eyes as she kicked off and grabbed the down-hanging bush above them. The next moment she was scrambling toward the top of the wall, clinging to an armful of Bougainvillea stems.