Kalman looked puzzled.

“A cat?”

“No, a cad.  Don’t you know what a cad is?  Well, a cad is—­hanged if I know how to put it—­you know what a gentleman is?”

Kalman nodded.

“Well, the other thing is a cad.”

The Galician listened attentively while Kalman explained, and made humble and deprecating reply.

“He says,” interpreted Kalman, “that he is very sorry, but he wants to know what you fight with.  You can’t hurt a man with your hands.”

“Can’t, eh?” said French.  “Tell him to stand up here to me.”

The Galician came up smiling, and French proceeded to give him his first lesson in the manly art, Kalman interpreting his directions.

“Put up your hands so.  Now I am going to tap your forehead.”

Tap, tap, went French’s open knuckles upon the Galician’s forehead.

“Look out, man.”

Tap, tap, tap, the knuckles went rapping on the man’s forehead, despite his flying arms.

“Now,” said French, “hit me.”

The Galician made a feeble attempt.

“Oh, don’t be afraid.  Hit me hard.”

The Galician lunged forward, but met rigid arms.

“Come, come,” said French, reaching him sharply on the cheek with his open hand, “try better than that.”

Again the Galician struck heavily with his huge fists, and again French, easily parrying, tapped him once, twice, thrice, where he would, drawing tears to the man’s eyes.  The Galician paused with a scornful exclamation.

“He says that’s nothing,” interpreted Kalman.  “You can’t hurt a man that way.”

“Can’t, eh?  Tell him to come on, but to look out.”

Again the Galician came forward, evidently determined to land one blow at least.  But French, taking the blow on his guard, replied with a heavy left-hander fair on the Galician’s chest, lifted him clear off his feet and hurled him breathless against his load of hay.  The man recovered himself, grinning sheepishly, nodding his head vigorously and talking rapidly.

“That is enough.  He says he would like to learn how to do that.  That is better than a club,” interpreted Kalman.

“Tell him that his people must learn to fight without club or knife.  We won’t stand that in this country.  It lands them in prison or on the gallows.”

Kalman translated, his own face fiery red meanwhile, and his own appearance one of humiliation.  He was wondering how much of his own history this man knew.

“Good-by,” said French, holding out his hand to the Galician.

The man took it and raised it to his lips.

“He says he thanks you very much, and he wishes you to forget his badness.”

“All right, old man,” said French cheerfully.  “See you again some day.”

And so they parted, Kalman carrying with him an uncomfortable sense of having been at various times in his life something of a cad, and a fear lest this painful fact should be known to his new master and friend.