Evidently Judson had fallen, too--along with Major Ramos, and
Colonel Lopez, and Leslie Branch, and all the rest. Well, it was
to be expected. Before he had been a week in Cuba O'Reilly had
noticed that Miss Evans was a mystery and a delight to nearly
every man she met.
"So YOU'VE got it, eh?" he inquired.
"Got what?" Judson did not turn his eyes.
"It."
"It? If you can't talk English, talk Spanish."
O'Reilly was not perturbed by this gruffness. "I think her
presence here is the silliest, the most scandalous thing I ever
heard of," said he. "The idea of a girl of her accomplishments,
her means, alone in Cuba! Why, it's criminal!"
Judson's gunny-sacking hammock bulged beneath him. It threatened
to give way as he sat up with a jerk and swung his bare legs over
the side. His face was dark; he was scowling; his chin was
pugnaciously outthrust and his voice rumbled as he exclaimed:
"The deuce it is! Say! I don't like the way you talk about that
girl."
"You don't, eh?" O'Reilly eyed him quizzically. "Would you care to
have your sister do what she's doing?"
"That's not the point. You can't compare her with ordinary women."
"Well, this isn't an ordinary environment for a woman, no matter
who she is. These Cubans are bound to talk about her."
"Are they?" Judson glared at the speaker.
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