It was Jacket. His
brown cheeks were distended, his bright, inquisitive eyes were
fixed upon O'Reilly from beneath a defiant scowl.
"Jacket!" cried the man. "What the devil are you doing here?"
"You goin' to let me come along?" challenged the intruder.
"So! You followed me, after I said I didn't want you?" O'Reilly
spoke reproachfully; but reproaches had no effect upon the lad.
With a mild expletive, Jacket signified his contempt for such a
weak form of persuasion.
"See here now." O'Reilly stepped closer. "Let's be sensible about
this."
But Jacket scrambled to his feet and retreated warily, stuffing
the uneaten portion of the sweet-potato into his mouth. It was
plain that he had no confidence in O'Reilly's intentions.
Muttering something in a muffled voice, he armed himself with a
stout stick.
"Come here," commanded the American.
Jacket shook his head. He made a painful attempt to swallow, and
when his utterance became more distinct he consigned his idol to a
warmer place than Cuba.
"I'm a tough kid," he declared. "Don't get gay on me."
The two parleyed briefly; then, when satisfied that no violence
was intended him, the boy sat down to listen. But, as before,
neither argument nor appeal had the slightest effect upon him. He
denied that he had followed his benefactor; he declared that he
was a free agent and at liberty to go where he willed.
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