"A serenade, boys!" he announced, as the musicians filed sheepishly into the hotel. "Our guests, the fair _señoritas_, you know! We'll make those young Mexican dudes look like two-spots before the war is over. Who's game now for a song beneath the windows? You know the old stand-bys--'La Paloma' and 'Teresita Mia'--and you want to listen to me sing 'Me Gustan Todas' to Gracia, the fairest of the fair! Come on, fellows, out in the plaza, and then listen to the old folks cuss!" They adjourned then, after a drink for courage, to the moonlight and the plaza; and there, beneath the shuttered windows and vacant balconies, the guitars and violins took up "La Paloma," while Phil and a few brave spirits sang. A silence followed their first attempt, as well as their second and third, and the _comisario_ of police, a mild creature owned and paid by the company, came around and made a few ineffectual protests. But inside the company's concession, where by common consent the militant _rurales_ kept their hands off, the Americans knew they were safe, and they soon jollied the _comisario_ into taking a drink and departing. Then De Lancey took up the burden, and the string band, hired by the hour, strummed on as if for eternity. One by one the windows opened; fretful fathers stepped out on the balcony and, bound by the custom and convention of the country, thanked them and bade them good night. But the two windows behind which the Señor Aragon and his family reposed did not open and, though the dwindling band stood directly under their balcony, and all knew that his daughter was the fairest of the fair, Don Cipriano did not wish them good night. Perhaps he recognized the leading tenor--and the big voice of Bud Hooker, trying to still the riot--but, however it was, he would not speak to them, and De Lancey would not quit. "Try 'em on American music," he cried, as every one but Bud went away in disgust, "the latest rag from Broadwa-ay, New York. Here, gimme that guitar, _hombre_, and listen to this now!" He picked out a clever bit of syncopation and pitched his voice to a heady twang: "Down in the garden where the red roses grow, Oh my, I long to go! Pluck me like a flower, cuddle me an hour, Lovie, let me learn the Rose Red Ra-ag!" There was some swing to that, and it seemed to make an impression, for just as he was well started on the chorus the slats of one of the shutters parted and a patch of white shone through the spaces. It was the ladies, then, who were getting interested! Phil wailed on: "Swee-eet honey-bee, be sweet to me! My heart is free, but here's the key!" And then, positively, he could see that patch of white beat time. He took heart of grace at that and sang on to the end, and at a suggestion of clapping in dumb-show he gave an encore and ragged it over again. "Ev'rybody's doin' it, doin' it, doin' it!'" he began, as the shadow dance ceased.