Hot Day

Sweat beaded the folded hands of Argentine farmers in their pews. Sweat wilted the collar of the priest in the sanctuary. In an Indian summer hot beyond measure, the villagers of San Luis were trying to worship God. Father Juan Guerrera blessed the bread and wine. The villagers trailed forward to the altar rail to receive the Communion.

Sweltering in cassock, alb, chasuble and stole, Father Guerrera looked down at his flock. His eye fell on a cool expanse of bare shoulder and open bosom. "Elida." he roared, "go home and take off that dress!"

Senorita Elida Dacunda flounced out into the broiling village plaza. In two minutes she had found her father. In five minutes he had gathered a mob. Father Dacunda rushed into the telegraph office, sent a protest to the Provincial Governor at nearby Corrientes, rushed out again. The mob retired to the cooler shadows on the edge of the square.

There was a stir in the church. The doors opened. Out came the priest and his flock. The friends of Dacunda. leaning lazily against the pillars of the Municipal Building, flipped out their revolvers and began shooting. Priest & friends popped back into church and returned the fire. The noise was terrific. After ten minutes of fusillading everyone except one wounded man felt better. Father Dacunda cuffed his daughter, told her to go home and change her dress.

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