buckets of water and towels. It was not the first time that the Casa Grande had seen a fight. Such things aided the popularity of the place. Padilla had been several times in action. He was the bully of the place, for all his guitar playing. It was an odd combination—matador and musician—only a Latin could have compassed it, but it was a life that Padilla revelled in.
Bets were being made with the odds on the Mexican, despite the quick uptaking of the wagers by the American contingent. The cause of the quarrel was forgotten. It was a race rivalry with scant sympathy for the principals as persons.
Details began to shape themselves to Stone who had mechanically allowed Lefty to help him strip to his waist and seat him in a chair. Padilla emerged from a knot of his countrymen, his sash gay about his waist, the muscles playing over a torso that gave Stone a sudden realization of what he was up against. The Mexican was magnificently built from the waist up, his legs could be only guessed at, but a bull-fighter's footwork is his best safeguard and there was small doubt of their capacity. The broad shoulders sloped a little, the chest curved like a vase down to the stomach, every pose and motion set in play elastic masses of muscle, relaxing and bunching. He sneered across at Stone and turned his back on him, showing a trapezium that a professional gymnast might have envied.
Stone's arms were burned to the biceps, his face tan covered his neck and a deep V on his chest.
