Beth Norvell

"Ay ban Lutheran."

"An' what's that? It's a Dimocrat Oi am, an' dom the O'Brien that's

annything else. But Oi niver knew thar was anny of thim other things

hereabout. It's no prohibitioner ye are, annyhow, fer that stuff in

yer bottle wud cook a snake. Sufferin' ages! but it had an edge to it

that wud sharpen a saw. What do ye think of ther blatherin' baste

annyhow, seeñorita?"

The little Mexican gave sudden vent to her pent-up laughter, clapping

her hands in such an ecstasy of delight as to cause the unemotional

Swanson to open his mild blue eyes in solemn wonder.

"He all right, I rink," she exclaimed eagerly. "He no so mooch fool as

you tink him--no, no. See, señor, he busy eat all de time dat you

talk; he has de meal, you has de fin' air. Vich ees de bettair, de air

or de meat, señor? Bueno, I tink de laugh vas vid him."

Mr. O'Brien, his attention thus suddenly recalled to practical affairs,

gazed into the emptied frying-pan, a decided expression of bewildered

despair upon his wizened face. For the moment even speech failed him

as he confronted that scene of total devastation. Then he dashed

forward to face the victim of his righteous wrath.

"Ye dom Swade, ye!" He shook a dirty fist beneath the other's nose.

"Shmell o' that! It's now Oi know ye 're a thafe, a low-down haythen

thafe. What are ye sittin' thar for, grinnin' at yer betthers?"

"Two tollar saxty cint."

The startled Irishman stared at him with mouth wide open.

"An' begorry, did ye hear that, seeñorita? For the love of Hivin, it's

only a poll-parrot sittin' there ferninst us, barrin' the appetite of

him. Saints aloive! but Oi 'd love to paste the crature av it was n't

a mortal sin to bate a dumb baste. An' he 's a Lutheran! God be

marciful an' keep me from iver ketchin' that same dis'ase, av it wud

lave me loike this wan. What's that? What was it the haythen said

then, seeñorita?"

"Not von vord, señor; he only vink von eye like maybe he flirt vid me."

"The Swade did that! Holy Mother! an' wid an O'Brien here to take the

part of any dacent gurl. Wait till I strip the coat off me. It's an

O'Brien that'll tache him how to trate a lady. Say, Swanson, ye son of

a gun, ye son of a say-cook, ye son--Sure, Oi 'd loike to tell ye what

ye are av it was n't for the prisince of the seeñorita. It's Michael

O'Brien who 's about to paste ye in the oye fer forgittin' yer manners,

an' growin' too gay in good company. Whoop! begorry, it's the grane

above the red!"