"The prisoner will not talk," repeated Bucky, with drawling
mockery. "Sure he will, general. There's several things he's
awful curious to know. One of them is how you happen to be
Johnnie-on-the-spot so opportune."
The lieutenant's dignity melted before his vanity. Having so
excellent a chance to sun the latter, he delivered himself of an
oration. After all, silent contempt did not appear to be the best
weapon to employ with this impudent fellow.
"Senor, no Chaves ever forgets an insult. Last night you, a
common American, insulted me grossly--me, Lieutenant Ferdinand
Chaves, me, of the bluest Castilian blood." He struck himself
dramatically on the breast. "I submit, senor, but I vow revenge.
I promised myself to spit on you, to spit on your Stars and
Stripes, the flag of a nation of dirty traders. Ha! I do so now
in spirit. The hour I have longed for is come."
Bucky took one step forward. His eyes had grown opaque and
flinty. "Take care, you cur."
Swiftly Chaves hurried on without pressing the point. He had a
prophetic vision of his neck in the vise grip of those brown,
sinewy hands, and, though his men would afterward kill the man,
small good would he get from that if the life were already
squeezed out of him.
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