United States or Colombia ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"You will allow me, then?" he asked, and without waiting for the permission, fearing that it might not be granted, raised the cloth to look for the mirrors that he expected should be between the legs of the table. Ben-Zayb uttered an exclamation and stepped back, again placed both hands under the table and waved them about; he encountered only empty space.
All laughed at this, Ben-Zayb himself joining in good-naturedly. Two soldiers of the Civil Guard, appropriately labeled, were placed behind a man who was tightly bound and had his face covered by his hat. It was entitled The Country of Abaka, and from appearances they were going to shoot him. Many of our visitors were displeased with the exhibition.
The sad-iron was carefully imitated, being of copper with coals of red tinsel and smoke-wreaths of dirty twisted cotton. "Eh, Ben-Zayb, it wasn't a fool who designed that" asked Padre Camorra with a laugh. "Well, I don't see the point," replied the journalist. "But, puñales, don't you see the title, The Philippine Press? That utensil with which the old woman is ironing is here called the press!"
Over yonder is where they lost track of him, and a little farther on near the shore they discovered something like the color of blood. And now I think of it, it's just thirteen years, day for day, since this happened." "So that his corpse " began Ben-Zayb. "Went to join his father's," replied Padre Sibyla. "Wasn't he also another filibuster, Padre Salvi?"
"Will you allow me to write an article about that?" asked Ben-Zayb. "In this country there is so little thinking done " "But, Don Custodio," exclaimed Doña Victorina with smirks and grimaces, "if everybody takes to raising ducks the balot eggs will become abundant. Ugh, how nasty! Rather, let the bar close up entirely!" There, below, other scenes were being enacted.
The table had three thin iron legs, sunk into the floor. The journalist looked all about as though seeking something. "Where are the mirrors?" asked Padre Camorra. Ben-Zayb looked and looked, felt the table with his fingers, raised the cloth again, and rubbed his hand over his forehead from time to time, as if trying to remember something. "Have you lost anything?" inquired Mr. Leeds.
Immediately upon hearing of the incident, after lights had been brought and the scarcely dignified attitudes of the startled gods revealed, Ben-Zayb, filled with holy indignation, and with the approval of the press-censor secured beforehand, hastened home an entresol where he lived in a mess with others to write an article that would be the sublimest ever penned under the skies of the Philippines.
"Cupid and Psyche appearing on Olympus," thought Ben-Zayb, making a mental note of the comparison to spring it at some better opportunity. The groom had in fact the mischievous features of the god of love, and with a little good-will his hump, which the severity of his frock coat did not altogether conceal, could be taken for a quiver.
But the jeweler had disappeared, unnoticed by any one. "Puñales!" exclaimed Padre Camorra, "how stingy the American is! He's afraid we would make him pay the admission for all of us into Mr. Leeds' show." "No!" rejoined Ben-Zayb, "what he's afraid of is that he'll compromise himself. He may have foreseen the joke in store for his friend Mr. Leeds and has got out of the way."
In the afternoon Ben-Zayb, his pockets filled with revolvers and cartridges, went to see Don Custodio, whom he found hard at work over a project against American jewelers. In a hushed voice he whispered between the palms of his hands into the journalist's ear mysterious words. "Really?" questioned Ben-Zayb, slapping his hand on his pocket and paling visibly.