A respectable-looking elderly Spaniard stepped forward and took off his sombrero with a sweeping bow.
“Be good enough to tell this fellow that he is a heartless cowardly brute,” said the lieutenant sternly, and pointing to the still defiant-looking mule-driver; “ask him what he means by such conduct.”
The Spaniard interpreted the officer’s words, but the culprit obstinately and sullenly refused to answer a word.
“Where is the stick with which he belaboured the poor mule?” demanded the gunnery lieutenant.
“Here it is, sir,” said Ned Burton, coming up at that moment with a long, business-like cane in his hand.
“We’ll now give him a taste of what the poor mule felt,” said the lieutenant. “A couple of you smart blue-jackets tie the fellow up to that stump of a tree.”
The culprit resisted with all his strength, and attempted to bite, scratch, and kick; but the two brawny seamen made short work of his struggles, and soon had him securely lashed to the tree.
“One dozen,” said Mr. Thompson, nodding to Ned Burton significantly.
My coxswain touched his cap, grinned, and rolled up his sleeve in a workmanlike manner.
“Trust me to polish him off!” I heard him mutter to himself; “I can’t abide them furriners that wreaks their bad temper on dumb animals that can’t ’it you back agin—smother me if I can!”