"Besides," added Billy, "it may teach him to use prettier language."
He bent down, and with a swift jerk hoisted the prisoner to his feet. I looked round the room. In the farther corner was a stout ash walking-stick, leaning invitingly against the wall.
Whatever natural taciturnity Señor Rojas may have possessed vanished abruptly when he saw me pick up this useful weapon. He burst into a hideous jargon of Spanish,—the dog-Spanish of the Argentine Hinterland,—whining and imploring that we should not put this indignity on him.
"Kill me, Prado," he shrieked. "Kill me. I do not fear death."
"Shut up," said Billy. "The Devil's much too good a chap to be landed with a skunk like you. Come over."
He hauled the squirming figure across the table, and held it there by the simple expedient of lying across its head.
I gave the stick a tentative swish through the air. "This, my friend," I said in Spanish, "will teach you not to bully women."
Whether my optimistic prophecy was fulfilled I cannot say, but certain it is that Señor Rojas was no hand at suppressing his emotions. He howled and screamed with a vigour that warmed my heart, and it was only when his voice finally cracked, and the entertainment became less inspiriting, that I threw down the stick.
Billy released him, and he slid down on to the floor, blubbering and sobbing like a naughty boy.
"Here endeth the first lesson," observed Billy irreverently. Then, turning over the lachrymose figure with his foot, he added in a kind voice: "Take my tip, sonny, and pad your trousers next time you come out Prado-shooting."