'These poor Span—— ' I begin. The barrel trembles visibly.
'Por Dios,' hisses the manager, bobbing up from the barrel like an undecided Jack-in-the-box—'for Heaven's sake, don't compromise me!'
The audience begin to show signs of impatience. Again the prompter maddens me by giving the text.
Myself (aside to prompter): 'Bar—ajo! sir, I know my part.'
Mister Charleys (very loud to audience): 'These poor Spanish brutes want civilising badly!'
'Bravo! Muy bien!' from the Cuban party.
Groans and loud whistling from the Spaniards.
'That was well said!' observes a voice.
'Fuera!' (Turn him out!) observes another.
'It was a good home-thrust!' cries the first.