Anglais riches. Femme me donne
tout. Moi no travailler. Bon, eh?_"
Grateful for this little piece of information, and with his leer an inch
from my chin, I answered slowly and calmly that it certainly was. I might
add that he spoke Spanish by preference (according to Mexique very bad
Spanish); for The Fighting Sheeney had made his home for a number of
years in Rio, and his opinion thereof may be loosely translated by the
expressive phrase, "it's a swell town."
A charming fellow, The Fighting Sheeney.
Now I must tell you what happened to the poor Spanish Whoremaster. I have
already noted the fact that Count Bragard conceived an immediate fondness
for this rolypoly individual, whose belly--as he lay upon his back of a
morning in bed--rose up with the sheets, blankets and quilts as much as
two feet above the level of his small, stupid head studded with chins. I
have said that this admiration on the part of the admirable Count and R.
A. for a personage of the Spanish Whoremaster's profession somewhat
interested me. The fact is, a change had recently come in our own
relations with Vanderbilt's friend. His cordiality toward B. and myself
had considerably withered. From the time of our arrivals the good
nobleman had showered us with favours and advice.
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