Don Mike is not dead."

He raised his old head with languid interest and nodded comprehension.

"My wife, Carolina, she tell me same thing all time. She say: '_Pablo
mio_, somebody make beeg mistake. Don Mike come home pretty queeck,
you see. Nobody can keel Don Mike. Nobody have that mean the
deesposition for keel the boy.' But I don' theenk Don Mike come back
to El Palomar."

"Carolina is right, Pablo. Somebody did make a big mistake. He was
wounded in the hand, but not killed. I saw him to-day, Pablo, on the
train."

"You see Don Mike? You see heem with the eye?"

"Yes. And he spoke to me with the tongue. He will arrive here in an
hour."

Pablo was on his knees before her, groping for her hand. Finding it,
he carried it to his lips. Then, leaping to his feet with an alacrity
that belied his years, he yelled:

"Carolina! Come queeck, _Pronto_! _Aquí_, Carolina."

"_Si, Pablo mio_."

Carolina appeared in the doorway and was literally deluged with a
stream of Spanish. She stood there, hands clasped on her tremendous
bosom, staring unbelievingly at the bearer of these tidings of great