Speake hesitated, then followed Cassidy out of the room.
“You’re a queer jigger, Bob Steele,” remarked Jordan.
“But he’s right, all the same,” said Coleman.
“Oh, yes, Jerry,” Jordan interposed, grinning, “you stick in your oar! You’re sort o’ chesty for a chap who’s been stowed away in the jungle with revolutionists for a couple of weeks or more, eating mule meat, and making all kinds of trouble for the state department of your native country! How’d you get run away with, in the first place?”
“That was too easy, Hays,” laughed Coleman. “I came across from the Pacific to Port Livingstone, and while I was there, the revolutionists gobbled me.”
“I believe you said they’d treated you well?”
“The best they could. I played poker with Pitou, and I learned, before I had been two days in the rebel camp, that it wasn’t safe to beat the general. As long as I allowed him to beat me, I was treated to the best he had. Whenever I beat him, my rations—even the mule meat—were cut down.”
Coleman turned to Ysabel, who had been sitting quietly by.
“I’m mighty glad, little girl,” said he, “that you are able to get clear of Pitou and Fingal.”
“So am I, Mr. Coleman,” answered Ysabel. “If it hadn’t been for Bob Steele I’d be still in the camp.”