Well, when I got back to the inn where me and Kid Roberts is parkin' ourselves, I'm so highly pleased with the conference I had with Dolores that I boldly hauled off and told the Kid all about it. I didn't mention nothin' about this Don Miguel callin' whilst I was there, because my boy friend got so burnt up over me interferin' in his domestical affairs that discussin' this subject took up the worst part of a crowded hour and left us both hoarse. In fact, for a while it looked like the bust up of one of the greatest two-man combinations since Haig & Haig. How the so ever, when the smoke of battle died down, me and Kid Roberts is still playmates as of yore. The Kid recognizes that I had simply acted as a old friend of both combatants in tryin' to bring him and his bride together, and all is forgiven. I then drove home the point that, in my opinion, Dolores was now in the mood where if he'd shoot right up to her and do his stuff he could square things with ridiculous ease. This Don Miguel Espinosa had me bothered and I wanted Kid Roberts to come to bat with Dolores before that Spanish cake eater made himself solid with her.
At first the Kid couldn't see my angle with a spyglass, and he kind of irritably makes the suggestion that we drop the subject for a while—say till 1969. When I went out to file some bushwah with the sport writers he was pacin' the room like a panther in the zoo, and he was just as tame. But I found a note from him at the desk when I come back:
