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Updated: June 15, 2025
The latter jerked a greasy thumb toward the interior of the mess hall, so, leaving Panchito "tied to the breeze," Don Mike dismounted and entered. "Hello there, young feller," Bill Conway roared at him. "Top o' the morning to you, old dirt-digger," Farrel replied. "Please deal me a hand of your ham and eggs, sunny side up. How be ye, Willum?" "R'arin' to go," Conway assured him. "All right.
For answer, Panchito threw his hind end aloft half a dozen times, and Kay's silvery laugh echoed through the corral as Farrel, appearing to lose his seat, slid forward on the horse's withers and clung with arms and legs round Panchito's neck, emulating terror.
Evidently this was an old game to Panchito, however, for he pinned his ears a little and headed straight for the quarry. Seemingly he knew what was expected of him, and had a personal interest in the affair, for as he came up to the animal, he attempted to run the panther down.
Father Dominic trembled. "Ah, my son, I feel like a little old devil," he quavered, but he protested no more. When Don Mike settled him in a seat in the grand-stand, Father Dominic whispered wistfully, "God will not hold this worldliness against me, Miguel. I feel I am here on His business, for is not Panchito running for a new roof for our beloved Mission? I will pray for victory."
Farrel a box of cigars." "Now, I'll make you another bet. I'll stake Panchito against another box of the same cigars that your father is a member of the Japan Society, of New York city." "Send Mr. Farrel another box of cigars, popsy-wops. Don Mike, how did you guess it?"
"Man, man, that's a horse race." "They'll never stop at the half-mile pole," Farrel laughed. "That race will be won by Panchito when Panchito wins it. Ah, I told you so." "Well, Peep-sight wins at the half by one open length and the cholo boy is using a switch on him!" "He's through. Panchito is gaining on him. He'll pass him at the three-quarter pole." "Right-o, Farrel.
They'll pocket him and keep him there." "They'll not!" Kay's voice rose sharply. "Panchito will be off first, no matter what position he draws, and Don Mike's orders to Allesandro will be to keep him in front. But you are not to bet on him, father." "Why not? Of course I shall bet on him." "You know very well, Dad, that there are no book-makers of Tia Juana to make the odds.
Perhaps he steals my calves. Who knows?" "Señor Lewis doesn't need to steal. He has money," Jones argued. "True! But who is so rich that he would not be richer? Lewis employs men who are poor, and he himself is above nothing. I, too, am a friend of the Rebels. Panchito, the Liberator, was a saint, and I give money to the patriots who fight for his memory.
His stern eyes softened in a glance of father-love supreme. "Whose little girl are you?" he whispered, and, to that ancient query of parenthood, she gave the reply of childhood: "Daddy's." "Just for that, I'll offer the soldier a tremendous profit on Panchito. We'll see what his sentiment is worth." "Bet you a new hat, angel-face, you haven't money enough to buy him," Kay challenged.
Panchito was a trained saddle animal, wise, sensible, courageous and with a prodigious faith that his rider would get him safely out of any jam into which they might blunder together.
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