"You cut that rope that holds me like a chicken," he said, "and I'll parleyvoo."
Gomez cut the rope, and the inspector agreed to keep his feelings unexpressed.
The procession moved on. The carabaos laboured, the carros creaked and groaned and wailed. The sun mounted, more biting every moment. The ladrones lit cigarettes and shuffled along the road. The widow dozed.
A more pronounced lurch of her cart suddenly awakened her, and again her clamour was resounding in the heated silence.
Again it was the unlucky inspector. His cart had crept up little by little, till close to the widow's, and her eyes had opened upon the fact that he was not properly clad. Now, such a thing at times is excusable. It isn't your fault if a band of pestiferous ladrones pounce upon you in the morning and whisk you out in your pajamas.
"Sergeant," shrilled the widow (with concern Gomez noticed that each time she addressed him it was with a diminution of title). "Sergeant, dress that man!"
Gomez demurred. Again the widow sprang from her cart and sat in the road. Again the train was blocked.
"I will not budge till you have clothed that man,"
