"
"I'm not a fighter," Johnnie told him. "I'm here on--other
business."
Captain Judson was plainly disappointed. Nevertheless, he
volunteered to assist his countryman in any way possible. "Have
you met the old man," he inquired--"General Gomez?"
"No, I'd like to meet him."
"Come along, then; I'll introduce you. This is about the right
time of day for it; he'll probably be in good humor. He has
dyspepsia, you know, and he's not always pleasant."
It was nearly sundown; the eastern slopes were in shadow, and
supper was cooking. As the two men passed down the wide street
between its rows of bohios the fragrance of burning fagots was
heavy in the air--that odor which is sweet in the nostrils of
every man who knows and loves the out-of-doors. To O'Reilly it was
like the scents of Araby, for his hopes were high, his feet were
light, and he believed his goal was in sight.
Gen. Maximo Gomez, father of patriots, bulwark of the Cuban cause,
was seated in a hammock, reading some letters; O'Reilly recognized
him instantly from the many pictures he had seen. Gomez was a
keen, wiry old man; the color of his swarthy, sun-bitten cheeks
was thrown into deeper relief by his snow-white mustache and
goatee. He looked up at Judson's salute and then turned a pail of
brilliant eyes, as hard as glass, upon O'Reilly.
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