"Didn't y' see him?" I says. "He's a greaser, and a' awful bad cuss t' monkey with. If you happen t' go past him and so much as wiggle a finger, it's like takin' you' life in you' hands. Look at this." And I showed him a piece that me and Hairoil 'd fixed up fer the last _EyeOpener_. "_Pedro Garcia,_" it read, "_was found not guilty by Judge Freeman fer perforatin' Nick Trotmann's sombrero in a street row last Saturday night week. Proved that Nick got into Pedro's way and sassed him. Pedro 'd come to town consider'ble the worse fer booze and, as is allus the case_--" Then they was a inch 'r two without no writin'. Under that was this: "_As a matter of extreme precaution, we have lifted the last half of the above article, havin' got word that Garcia is due in town again. Subscribers will please excuse the gap. I didn't git no time t' fill it in. Editor._" "And what's he doin' in _here?_" says Boston, "--talkin' to a young gal!" "Half cracked about her," puts in Bill. "And if she won't have him, 'r her maw interferes, I'm feared they'll be a tragedy." "Low ruffian!" says Boston. Later on, about ten o'clock, say, I was passin' the rest'rant, and I heerd a man singin'---- "Luz de mi alma! Luz de mi vida!" and that somethin' was "despedosin'" his heart. (I savvy the lingo pretty good.) Wal, it was that dog-goned cholo,--under Carlota's winda, and he had a guitar. Thunderation! that wasn't in our pro_gram!_ "Say, you!" I hollered. He shut up and come over, lookin' kinda as if he'd been ketched stealin' sheep, but grinnin' so hard his eyes was plumb closed--the mean, little, wall-eyed, bow-laigged swine! "Pedro," I says, "you' boss likely wants you. Hit the ties." 'Cause, mebbe Carlota 'd git mad at his yelpin,' and knock the hull scheme galley-west. Talk about you' cheek! Next night, that greaser and his guitar was doin' business at the ole stand. I let him alone. Carlota seemed t' like it. Anyhow, she didn't hand him out no hot soap suds through the winda, 'r no chairs and tables. I was glad things was goin' so nice. 'Cause lately I'd had t' worry about Mace a good deal. Her letters had eased up a hull lot. Seems she'd been under the weather fer a few days. When she writ again though, she said she was O. K., but a-course Noo York _was_ lonesome when a person was sick. Op'ra prospects? Aw, they was _fine!_ Next thing, I was nervouser'n a cow with the heel-fly. _No_ letters come from the little gal!--leastways, none to Rose. And ev'ry day ole man Sewell snooped 'round the post-office, lookin' more and more down in the mouth. "How's Mace?" Rawson ast him oncet. "Tol'rable," he answers, glum as all git out.