“Yes,’’ said Goodwin, “I’ve been talking with him. Let’s go into Espada’s place. I can spare you ten minutes.”
They went into the pulperia and sat at a little table upon stools with rawhide tops.
“Have a drink?” said Goodwin.
“They can’t bring it too quickly,” said Blythe. “I’ve been in a drought ever since morning. Hi—muchacho!—el aguardiente por acá.”
“Now, what do you want to see me about?” asked Goodwin, when the drinks were before them.
“Confound it, old man,” drawled Blythe, “why do you spoil a golden moment like this with business? I wanted to see you—well, this has the preference.” He gulped down his brandy, and gazed longingly into the empty glass.
“Have another?” suggested Goodwin.
“Between gentlemen,” said the fallen angel, “I don’t quite like your use of that word ‘another.’ It isn’t quite delicate. But the concrete idea that the word represents is not displeasing.”
The glasses were refilled. Blythe sipped blissfully from his, as he began to enter the state of a true idealist.
