self. He stood with shoulders against the wall, lounging easily, chin lifted, cigarette drooping in his mouth. It seemed, rather, as if he had seen watch and money take flight like a covey of quail, and followed their course to see where they would light.
"Don Roberto has had old Vincente nail a crosspiece to the whipping-post, to stretch you out like they spread the thief on the cross beside Our Señor," Simon told him. "He is going to flog you there this afternoon. He will never stop, when he sees the blood spring, till you hang dead in the ropes. Jesus! it will be a sight to see!"
Henderson was standing by, smoking calmly. Simon glanced at him slyly, turning his eyeballs between the thin slits of his lids, his head held as before. Smoke was trickling out of his nostrils and mouth, as if he bled in fiery compassion over the cruelty he had pictured.
"Don Roberto is a man of fine humor," Simon continued, turning now to look at Henderson squarely, smiling as a man smiles when he approaches a pleasant thing.
"You know him better than I do," Henderson said, feeling that Simon's generosity in picturing the experience in store for him merited some encouragement.
"Yes. When he was a boy his great pleasure was to tie little frogs, and even little cats, by strings and hold them in the blaze until they slowly died. It was the great enjoyment of his tender years.
