Upon a palpitating bosom, Miss Buckner put a young, eager hand. It was wildly in quest of something . . . anchorage, perhaps.
Viewing it—queer, the disorderly temperature of women—Captain Tintero, a local vigilante, shot a red, staring eye at her. . . . “Well, my good lady, I see you are nervous as usual. . . Is not that so?”
Flattered by the captain's graciousness, Miss Buckner curtsied. Her eyelids giggled coquettishly. "Oh, my dear captain,” she said, “it is so splendid of you to come. I've been thinking of you all day—really. Wasn't I, Anesta, dear? Of course! Anesta, dear? Anesta, where are you, my dear? Where oh where are you?”
"It's good to be this way. God blarst mah, it is. 'And the Lord said unto him, this is my beloved Son in whom I'm well pleased.' . . ."
"... now laddie boys, don't be naughty be quiet, children. Captain, as I was saying . . . naughty . . . naughty boys. . . . Harmless, captain. Harmless, playful things. Anesta, Anestita? Is that the way you . . . persuasive captain!”
Cackling like a hen, pitching men to one side, she swept along. One or two British youths, palsied with liquor, desire, glared at her . . . then, at the olive figure, gold and crimson epaulets, high, regal prancing, at the uncovered, wolf-like fangs of the Captain.
“Christ, He was your color. Christ was olive. Jesus Christ was a man of olive . . ."
Grimy Britishers. Loquacious lime-juicers. Wine-crazed, women-crazed. . . .
Bringing up the rear, Captain Tintero, at best a dandy of the more democratic salons, grew warm at the grandeur of ennui, the beauty of excess. He, too, alas! was not to be outdone when he had set his heart upon a thing. Beau Brummel of the dusky policia, he was vain, handsome, sun-colored. He gloried in a razor slash on his right cheek which he had obtained at a brawl over a German maiden in a District cantine. Livid, the claret about to spring out of it, it did not disfigure
