They were naked now, as, with the modesty of complete
unconsciousness, he squatted in the shade, puffing thoughtfully at
his giant cheroot.
Once Jacket's mind was fastened upon any subject, it remained
there, and after a time he continued:
"Yes, I bet I don't taste good to no Spaniard. Did I told you
about that battle of Pino Bravo? Eh?" He turned his big brown eyes
upward to O'Reilly. "Cristo! I skill more'n a dozen men that day!"
"Oh, Jacket!" the Americans cried. "You monstrous little liar!"
commented O'Reilly.
"Si, senors," the boy went on, complacently. "That day I skill
more'n six men. It was this way; we came on them from behind and
they don't see us. Phui! We skill plenty, all right!"
"It was a hot scrimmage," Judson attested. "Some of Luque's
niggers, those tall, lean, hungry fellows from Santiago, managed
to hack their way through a wire fence and get behind a detachment
of the enemy who had made a stand under a hill. They charged, and
for a wonder they got close enough to use their machetes. It was
bloody work--the kind you read about--no quarter. Somehow Jacket
managed to be right in the middle of the butchery. He's a bravo
kid, all right. Muy malo!"
There was a moment's silence, then Judson continued: "Funny thing
happened afterward, though. Jacket had to do his turn at picket
duty that night, and he got scared of the dark.
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