(Pours out glass of whiskey, and drinks; pours
again, and observes MANUELA watching him respectfully.) What the
Devil is that girl looking at? Eh! (Puts down glass.)
Manuela (aside). He is fierce and warlike. Mother of God! But he
is not so awful as that gray-haired caballero, who looks like a
fasting St. Anthony. And he loves aguardiente: he will pity poor
Diego the more. (Aloud.) Ahem! Senor. (Courtesies coquettishly.)
Col. Starbottle (aside). Oh, I see. Ged! not a bad-looking girl,--
a trifle dark, but Southern, and--er--tropical. Ged, Star, Star,
this won't do, sir; no, sir. The filial affections of Aeneas are
not to be sacrificed through the blandishments of--er--Dodo--I mean
a Dido.
Manuela. O senor, you are kind, you are good. You are an
Americano, one of a great nation. You will feel sympathy for a
poor young man,--a mere muchacho,--one of your own race, who was a
vaquero here, senor. He has been sent away from us here disgraced,
alone, hungry, perhaps penniless. (Wipes her eyes.)
Col. Starbottle. The Devil! Another prodigal. (Aloud.) My dear,
the case you have just stated would appear to be the--er--er--
normal condition of the--er--youth of America. But why was he
discharged? (Pouring out liquor.)
Manuela (demurely glancing at the colonel). He was drunk, senor.
Starbottle (potently). Drunkenness, my child, which is--er--
weakness in the--er--er--gentleman, in the subordinate is a crime.
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