d man, announced with
enthusiasm that he could shoot off the top of a tequila bottle at
thirty paces without aiming.

"Come on, friend, stand up," he said to the waiter. He dragged him out
by the hand to the patio of the hotel and set a tequila bottle on his
head. The poor devil refused. Insane with fright, he sought to escape,
but Blondie pulled his gun and took aim.

"Come on, you son of a sea cook! If you keep on I'll give you a nice
warm one!"

Blondie went to the opposite wall, raised his gun and fired. The bottle
broke into bits, the alcohol poured over the lad's ghastly face.

"Now it's a go," cried Blondie, running to the bar to get another
bottle, which he placed on the lad's head.

He returned to his former position, he whirled about, and shot without
aiming. But he hit the waiter's ear instead of the bottle. Holding his
sides with laughter, he said to the young waiter:

"Here, kid, take these bills. It ain't much. But you'll be all right
with some alcohol and arnica."

After drinking a great deal of alcohol and beer, Demetrio spoke:

"Pay the bill, Blondie, I'm going to leave you."

"I ain't got a penny, General, but that's all right. I'll fix it. How
much do we owe you, friend?"

"One hundred and eighty pesos, Chief," the bartender answered amiably.

Quickly, Blondie jumped behind the bar and with a sweep of both arms,
knocked down all the glasses and bottles.

"Send the bill to General Villa, understand?"

He left, laughing loudly at his prank.

"Say there, you, where do the girls hang out?" Blondie asked, reeling
up drunkenly toward a small well-dressed man, standing at the door of a
tailor shop.

The man stepped down to the sidewalk politely to let Blondie pass.

Blondie stopped and looked at him curiously, impertinently.

"Little boy, you're very small and dainty, ain't you? ... No? ... Then
I'm a liar! ... That's right! ... You know the puppet dance.... You
don't? The hell you don't! ... I met you in a circus! I know you can
even dance on a tightrope! ... You watch!"

Blondie drew his gun out and began to shoot, aiming at the tailor's
feet; the tailor gave a little jump at every pull of the trigger.

"See! You do know how to dance on the tightrope, don't you?"

Taking his friends by the arm, he ordered them to lead him to the
red-light district, punctuating every step by a shot which smashed a
street light, or struck some wall, a door, or a distant house.

Demetrio left him and