Part 8 (1/2)
”Take off your clothes!”
The officer colored with pa.s.sion.
”My clothes,” he gasped. ”Never!”
”I will make you.”
”What! are you a thief?”
”Call me what you please, but do as I say or it will be worse for you.”
The Spanish captain made a dash at Young Glory.
The latter stepped back quickly, raising his six-shooter as he did so, and pointing it at his captive.
”You are foolish,” said Young Glory. ”You cannot compete with me, and you ought to understand that.”
What was causing the Spaniard to stare so? Not the fact that he was threatened by Young Glory's six-shooter. No, but because when Young Glory had moved backwards, his sombrero had dropped off his head, thus exposing his thick yellow curls.
”You are not a Spaniard,” said Captain Calderon, astounded at the change in his captor.
”No.”
”Neither are you a Cuban.”
”No.”
”Who are you, then?”
”I will tell you. I am Young Glory.”
The Spaniard dropped into a chair.
”So you are the man who released the prisoner who was to be shot?”
”Yes.”
”And you've done terrible injury to the Spanish cause, both here and in Spain.”
”You pay me a high compliment, senor.”
”We have a heavy debt against you, Young Glory,” said the Spaniard, gloomily.
”You will when this night is over. My work has only just commenced.
Come, captain, you and I must not quarrel. You are a brave man, I know.
Don't drive me to extremities. I must have your uniform and I'll give you--these.”
Young Glory laughed as he pointed to the rags he was wearing.
A soldier soon recognizes the truth. A civilian is more disposed to argue. So the result was that Captain Calderon yielded with the best grace he could, and commenced to undress.