The first thing that the man did when they were alone was to roll a cigarette, which operation he finished deftly with one hand, while the other swept a match in a circular motion along his trousers leg. In very fair English the Spanish gipsy said: “You ce’tainly ought to learn to smoke, kid. Honest, it’s more comfort than a wife.”
“How do you know, since you are not married?” she asked archly.
“I been noticing some of my poor unfortunate friends,” he grinned.
CHAPTER VII.
IN THE LAND OF REVOLUTIONS
The knock that sounded on the door was neither gentle nor apologetic. It sounded as if somebody had flung a baseball bat at it.
O’Connor smiled, remembering that soft tap of yore. “I reckon—” he was beginning, when the door opened to admit a visitor.
This proved to be a huge, red-haired Irishman, with a face that served just now merely as a setting for an irresistible smile. The owner of the flaming head looked round in surprise on the pair of Romanies and began an immediate apology to which a sudden blush served as accompaniment.
“Beg pardon. I didn’t know. The damned dago told me—” He stopped in confusion, with a scrape and a bow to the lady.
“Sir, I demand an explanation of this most unwarrantable intrusion,” spoke the ranger haughtily, in his best Spanish.
A patter of soft foreign vowels flowed from the stranger’s embarrassment.