“You speak of Doña Petrona's side-saddle, Antonio?” said the little wife. “She would sell it for what it cost—perhaps for eight dollars. Ah, pumpkin-head, why did you not think to make all that profit? Then I could have bought slippers and a thousand things.”
“You are never satisfied, Cleta,” he returned. “Have you not got slippers to your feet?”
She tossed up a pretty foot and displayed it cased in rather a shabby little slipper. Then, with a laugh, she kicked it off towards him. “There,” she exclaimed, “put it in your bosom and keep it—something precious! And some day when you go to Montevideo, and wish to appear very grand before all the town, wear it on your great toe.”
“Who expects reason from a woman?” said Antonio, shrugging his shoulders.
“Reason! you have no more brains than a Muscovy duck, Antonio. You might have made this profit, but you never can make money like other men, and therefore you will always be poorer than the spiders. I have said this before very often, and only hope you will not forget it, for in future I intend to speak of other things.”
“Where would I have got the ten dollars to pay Petrona for the saddle?” he retorted, losing his temper.
“My friend,” I said, “if the saddle can be had, it is only just that you should have the profit. Take ten dollars, and if you buy it for me I will pay you two more.”
This proposal pleased him greatly, while Cleta, the volatile, clapped her hands with delight. While Antonio prepared to go to his neighbour's after the saddle I went out to a solitary thorn-tree about fifty yards from the rancho, and, spreading my poncho in the shade, lay down to sleep the siesta.
Before the shepherd had been long gone I heard a great noise in the house, like banging on doors and on copper vessels, but took no notice, supposing it to proceed from Cleta engaged in some unusually noisy domestic operation. At length I heard a voice calling to me, “Señor! Señor!”
Getting up, I went to the kitchen, but no person was there. Suddenly a loud knock was given on the door communicating with the second room. “Oh, my friend,” cried Cleta's voice behind it, “my ruffian of a husband has locked me in—can you let me out, do you think?”