"I mean you're a pretty good fighter, for a little fellow."
"Hell, yes!" agreed the youth. "I can fight."
"Better look out that some big Spaniard doesn't carry you off in
his pocket and eat you," O'Reilly warned; at which the boy grinned
and shook his head. He was just becoming accustomed to the
American habit of banter, and was beginning to like it.
"Jacket would make a bitter mouthful," Judson ventured.
The lad smiled gently and drew on his huge cigar. "You betcher
life. That----Spaniard would spit me out quick enough."
This Camagueyan boy was a character. He was perhaps sixteen, and
small for his age--a mere child, in fact. Nevertheless, he was a
seasoned veteran, and his American camp-mates had grown
exceedingly fond of him. He was a pretty, graceful youngster; his
eyes were large and soft and dark; his face was as sensitive and
mobile as that of a girl; and yet, despite his youth, he had won a
reputation for daring and ferocity quite as notable in its way as
was the renown of Leslie Branch.
There were many of these immature soldiers among the Insurrectos,
and most of them were in some way distinguished for valor. War, it
seems, fattens upon the tenderest of foods, and every army has its
boys--its wondrous, well-beloved infants, whom their older
comrades tease, torment, and idolize.
Pages:
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269