“And dirt cheap at that,” sighed the lady.
“Ah, Dios!” breathed General Falcon. “What to me is war and politics? This spot is one paradise. My country it have other brave heroes to continue the fighting. What to me should be glory and the shooting of mans? Ah! no. It is here I have found one angel. Let us buy the Hotel Español and you shall be mine, and the money shall not be waste on guns.”
Mrs. O’Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of the Colombian patriot.
“Oh, señor,” she sighed, happily, “ain’t you terrible!”
Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms to the General. The boxes of supposed rifles were stacked in the rented warehouse, and the Secretary of War sat upon them, waiting for his friend Kelley to fetch the victim.
Mr. Kelley hurried, at the hour, to the Hotel Español. He found the General behind the desk adding up accounts.
“I have decide,” said the General, “to buy not guns. I have to-day buy the insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the General Perrico Kimenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame O’Brien.”
Mr. Kelley almost strangled.
“Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish.” he spluttered, “you’re a swindler—that’s what you are!
