know positively that he can't come up to my offer. I tell you what,
Gallito, it's cards on the table now, and," he tapped the table between
them with his knuckles, "I'm politely requesting you to draw your nigger
from the woodpile."

Gallito's glance was like the stab of a poignard. "But this is strange
talk." He drew back haughtily. "I do not have to make explanations. I
have my daughter's interests at heart."

"Yes, I know," interrupted Hanson, "but the black man, the black man.
Out with him."

Gallito's face had grown livid, his mouth had tightened until it was
drawn and pinched. "Have it, then," he growled. "Sweeney's straight.
Sweeney hasn't left one wife in Colina while he eloped with one of his
head-liners. He's not in one scrape after another with a woman, until
he's a joke in the coast newspapers, and every woman he features in his
shows has got a black smirch on her--"

"By God, you've got your nerve," cried Hanson violently, interrupting
him.

Gallito made a deprecating motion with his hands, as if to say: "Don't
mention it, I beg of you," and then carefully selected another cigarette
from the box between them. "My nerve is something that rarely deserts
me, Mr. Hanson," he replied, "but I wish to finish what I was saying.
My daughter has a future. She will not only be a great dancer, but she
has the making of a great actress in her, too. And Dios!" he still
maintained his cold restraint, but now, in spite of himself, his tones
vibrated with passion, "just at the beginning of her career, to be made