“Perhaps I had better go over and punch his head,” observes Ashley. “His suspicions might be better grounded.”
“It would be a waste of time and perhaps lead to a general row. He is only a Spanish captain who has invested his title with more importance than would suffice for the entire service. Spanish captains are as plentiful as Kentucky colonels.”
“You speak by the card,” laughs Ashley, as he orders a glass of jerez and a cigar. “Your English, too, is as pure as a New Yorker’s—or perhaps I should say as un-foreign. Pure English is not a drug in the New York market.”
“I have resided in New York, as well as other parts of the United States. But after a short residence on this island a man drifts into the indolence and shiftlessness of the natives and loses much of his identity.”
“He does not lose his Americanism, I hope.”
“No; the same thrill comes over him when he sees the most beautiful of all flags streaming out on the breeze, and with it is increased his sense of the outrageous wrongs which the Cuban has suffered from generation to generation.”
Ashley has been looking his acquaintance over with much interest, and the result of his “sizing up” is as follows:
Age, about Ashley’s own; above the medium height, athletic of build, and straight as the proverbial arrow; general air denoting decision, dash, and a bit of recklessness. His garments are dark and somewhat travel-worn, and on his head, pulled down well over his eyes, he wears a soft hat that borders on the sombrero.
Just now he is scowling at the party of four near by, who are making merry apparently at the expense of the two young men.
“As I said before,” observes Ashley, “if you will kindly translate the remarks of yonder chaps it will afford me considerable satisfaction to call them to order. Ah, if I could only tell them in Spanish what I think of them in English,” he adds, recollecting an old opera-bouffe jest.