n Cairo make the donkeys trot?... This time
I put my trust in the Colt forty-five; and looked the god over, as he
came reluctantly nearer and nearer, singing a magic.

Do you know the tragedian walk as taken off on the comic opera stage,
the termination of each strutting, dragging step accentuated by cymbals
smashed together F-F-F? That was how the god walked. He was all in
scarlet, with a long feather sticking straight up from a scarlet cap.
And the magic he sang (now that you knew the sounds he made were those
of a tenor voice, you knew that it was a glorious tenor voice) was a
magic out of "Aida." It was the magic that what's-his-name sings when he
is appointed commander-in-chief of all the Egyptian forces. Now the
niggers may have thought that their god's magics were stronger than my
dynamite. But the god, though very, very simple, was not so simple as
that. He was an Italian colored man, black bearded, and shaped like
Caruso, only more so, if that is possible; and he sang, because he was a
singing machine, but he couldn't have talked. I'll bet on that. He was
too plumb afraid.

When he reached the hole that the dynamite had made in the landscape--I
showed myself; trying to look as much like a dove of peace as possible.

"Come on alone," I called in Italian, "and have a bite of lunch."

That stopped his singing, but I had to repeat. Well he had an argument
with the nigger, that finished with all the gestures that two monkeys
similarly situated would have made at each other, and after a time the
nigger sat down, and the god came on alone, puffing and indignant.

We talked in Dago, but I'll give the English of it, so's not to appear
to be showing off.

"Who and what in the seventh circle of hell _are_ you?" I asked.

He seemed offended that I should not have known. But he gave his name,
sure of his effect. "Signor ----" and the name sounded like that tower
in Venice that fell down the other day.

"You don't mean it!" I exclaimed joyfully. "Be seated," and, I added,
being silly with joy and relief at having my awful devil turn into a
silly child--"there may be some legacy--though trifling."

Well, he sat down, and stuck his short, immense hirsute legs out, all
comfy, and I, remembering the tracks on the beach, had a look at his
feet. And I turned crimson with suppressed laughter. He had wooden
cylinders three inches high strapped to his bare heels. They made him
five feet five inches high instead of five feet