While this whispered colloquy was going on, the chapel had
emptied, the Indians and Mexicans all hurrying out to set about the
day's work. Alessandro lingered at the doorway as long as he
dared, till he was sharply called by Juan Canito, looking back:
"What are you gaping at there, you Alessandro! Hurry, now, and
get your men to work. After waiting till near midsummer for this
shearing, we'll make as quick work of it as we can. Have you got
your best shearers here?"
"Ay, that I have," answered Alessandro; "not a man of them but
can shear his hundred in a day, There is not such a band as ours in
all San Diego County; and we don't turn out the sheep all bleeding,
either; you'll see scarce a scratch on their sides."
"Humph." retorted Juan Can. "'Tis a poor shearer, indeed, that
draws blood to speak of. I've sheared many a thousand sheep in my
day, and never a red stain on the shears. But the Mexicans have
always been famed for good shearers."
Juan's invidious emphasis on the word "Mexicans" did not escape
Alessandro. "And we Indians also," he answered, good-naturedly,
betraying no annoyance; "but as for these Americans, I saw one at
work the other day, that man Lomax, who settled near Temecula,
and upon my faith, Juan Can, I thought it was a slaughter-pen, and
not a shearing.
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