“Ah, quien sabe? I attack Spanish quite boldly now you see. As a matter of fact, I have no definite idea as to when I shall return. Sniffing the battle afar off has become monotonous. I am impatient to hear the rattle of musketry and the swish of the machete.”
“You will not expose yourself!” cries the senorita.
Ashley laughs softly. “I shall not lead any desperate charges,” he says. “For my position demands a show of neutrality, no matter how much I may sympathize at heart with the patriots. There is fighting all along the line between here and Havana, and I want a chance to describe a Cuban battle from personal observation. Besides, I like a good fight, and I shall probably itch to sail in and help the under dog, if said dog happens to be on the same side as my sympathies.”
“But when such a chivalrous feeling seizes you, restrain it; think of your friends, if not of yourself,” adjures Juanita, gravely.
“Ah, well, they would be the only mourners if I stopped a Spanish bullet. I haven’t a relative in the world except an amiable aunt in the western states, who threatens to some day turn over to me the squandering of her small fortune.”
“No relative except an aunt?” repeats Juanita, sympathetically. “No one to weep for you?”
“Oh, the boys in the office would wear crepe for a week, and—”
“Don’t talk so lightly on such a dreadful subject,” reproves Juanita. “I am sure I should feel a great deal more distress than ‘the boys in the office,’ and I have known you only a fortnight.”
“Thank you, senorita. You may feel sure that I shall studiously avoid being borne off a Cuban battleground upon my shield.”
“You will keep on through to Havana?”