"No, they got it out in half an hour." "Was she living with her folks?" Glendon was striving not to betray his disappointment and anxiety, but he felt like springing at the jailer and choking the truth from his lips. Panchita was dead--but where was the money? "She boarded with a Mexican family, and they didn't know anything except she came here lately and sold tamales. She was making tamales last night just before they all went to bed." "Who takes charge of the body and property in such cases?" "Oh, the County buries them and burns up their old duds. These Mex women never have nothing! Funny thing, though, about that," he paused to coax a cigar that failed to draw properly. "Gosh! That's a rank cigar!" he ejaculated taking it from his mouth and regarding it in disgust, while Glendon's fingers twitched. "I gave two bits for it, too." "You were saying something about the tamale girl's duds. What was the joke?" "Oh, yes"; the jailer resumed, laughing. "You see, there is a Mexican woman that lives in the same shack and she works for my wife. Does washing. She had some of our clothes there and so came up to explain that she couldn't get them done up on time. She told my wife all about the fire, and that the girl had only an old dress and a black shawl, but a fine pair of high-heeled slippers and silk stockings, and--ha! ha! ha! a bustle made out of newspapers. Can you beat that? Got to be in style, someway." Glendon's eyes flickered and he caught his breath quickly. "Funny combination, wasn't it? But all women folks are alike. If one of them rigs up so she has a hump on her back like a camel, all the others break their necks fixing up humps. If they were born that way, it would keep the doctors busy operating to get rid of 'em." Glendon stretched his face in an effort to smile, but the muscles were almost rigid. "Well," continued the narrator, enjoying his own story, "after the body was taken away, this old washwoman and another one started to clean up the place, and picking around they found the things. They got to scrapping over the stockings and shoes, that was too small for either of them to wear. But they never let up till they had 'em tore to pieces. The old woman was crying when she told about it. My wife almost had hysterics when she told me the story." Glendon pretended to enjoy the joke hugely. Then after a short period, he asked, "But what did they do with the bustle? Who got that souvenir?" "Oh, they burnt that up. It was just old newspapers. Nobody wanted that. My wife asked about it, because she thought the old woman might be wearing it herself. So that's why none of us got our tamales tonight!" the man concluded as he moved away from the cell door. Glendon threw himself on the bunk, cursing his ill-luck.