Part 43 (2/2)

”Oh, ho! Leetle spitfire still!” Pancho laughed. He chucked her under her pretty chin. ”So you marry ze man I pick for you, eh? Good! An'

zis”--pointing to the baby--”zis ees better yet!”

”Look at mine!” the proud Lucia couldn't help saying. ”Isn't he the image of his father?”

She held him up, and Lopez took his little hand in his. ”Yes, I see what you mean,” he said, carefully looking at the child. ”Hees father's eyes--but not so much hair! What you call heem?”

”Guess!” said Gilbert.

”Could not,” the Mexican answered.

”Only one guess!” Lucia begged.

”Could not t'ink,” Lopez insisted.

”Well, then--you tell him, Gilbert,” the mother said, turning to her husband.

”There could be only one name in all the world for that youngster,” Gilbert said, and put his hand affectionately on his old friend's shoulder. ”You ought to know it as well as I. Of course his name is--Pancho!”

The smile that came over the Mexican's face was beautiful to see. And was that the suggestion of a tear in his eye?

Long and long, and while everybody in the room remained perfectly still, he looked at the baby, whose tiny hands bobbed up and down--a fat, healthy youngster, fit as a fiddle, laughing, squirming, happy.

”For me you name him?” Lopez finally got out. ”Oh, too good you are to me.

Pancho! my own leetle boy! Pancho! 'Some' name, what you say, eh?”

And he pinched the child's cheek, tenderly as his mother would have done.

”And here's mine!” Angela, not to be outdone, piped up, presenting her child, also in her arms, to the delirious bandit.

”An' what heez name?”

”It ain't a he--it's a she, I told you!” Angela corrected.

”Ah! All kinds you 'ave 'ere, eh? Good! An' what _'er_ name?”

”Can't you guess?” asked ”Red,” coming forward, smiling.

”A girl? What use I 'ave for girls?” laughed Pancho Lopez. ”What you say now--what's ze name?”

”Why, Panchita! What else could we have named her?” Angela said.

You could have knocked the Mexican down with a straw. This time he was flabbergasted.

”You all too fine, too tender, too good to me,” he said; and there was a softness in his speech that none of them had guessed could be there, save, perhaps, Gilbert.

”Oh, no,” Jones said. ”We wanted a little Mexican touch in our households.

And we've never forgotten you, old friend. Tell me, where have you been all these months? We hoped to hear from you. But never a word or a sign from you. Aren't you just a little ashamed of yourself now, when you see how much we have been thinking of you?”

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