Speed, who had sat in open-mouthed amazement during the scene, pinched himself. Like Larry, he could not remove his gaze from the swarthy man. He pulled himself together with an effort, however, undertaking to divert the present trend of the conversation. "W--where will you cut him?" he asked, pleasantly, more to make conversation than from any lingering question as to the precise location. "Here." Carara turned the blade against himself, and traced a cross upon his front, whereupon the trainer gurgled and laid protecting hands upon his protruding abdomen. "You spik Spanish?" "No." Glass shook his head. "But you understan' w'at I try to say?" "Yes--oh yes--I'm hep all right." "And the Senor Fat will r-r-re-member?" "Sure!" Glass sighed miserably, and tearing his eyes away from the glittering blade, rolled them toward his employer. "I don't want her! Mr. Speed knows I don't want her!" Carara bowed. "And the Fat Senor will not spik wit' her again?" "No!" "_Gracias, Senor!_ I thank you!" "You're welcome!" agreed the New Yorker, with repressed feeling. "_Adios! Adios,_ Senor Speed!" "Good-bye!" exclaimed the two in chorus. Carara returned the knife to its hiding-place, swept the floor gracefully with his sombrero, then placing the spangled head- piece at an exact angle upon his raven locks, lounged out, his silver spurs tinkling in the silence. Glass took a deep breath. "He doesn't mean to kill you--just cut you," said Speed. "I got it," declared the other, fervently. Again he laid repressing hands upon his bulging front and looked down at it tenderly. "They've all got it in for my pad, haven't they?" "I told you to keep away from that girl."