Classicly

It was a strange sight there in the little cantina. Poor Felipe sprawled at the feet of the Tiger, his hands outspread on the floor, while the Tiger leaned forward facing us, a snarl writhing his thin lips. Ramon was backed against the table, and almost into Mendez’s chair. Pasquale was sprawled forward, his arms on the table-top, while I hunched in my chair, afraid to move, I think. Suddenly the Tiger whipped off his dripping sombrero and sent it spinning on to the table. A whisp of the water struck me in the eyes, but I did not blink.