“Friends,” was the reply, of course in Spanish.
“Friends? And why ride out here, then?”
“We have no money, capitan. We are dirt-poor.”
“And where do you intend to go?”
“Los Harmona—if the train will ever reach there.”
“What will you do there?”
“We may join the Spanish soldiery, capitan—if you will take us.”
“Ha!” The Spanish officer tugged at his heavy mustache. He was only a sergeant, but it pleased him to be called captain. “Why did you not come into the car instead of sneaking around outside? If you want to become soldiers we will take you along fast enough. But you must not play us false. Come up here.”
“I am afraid—I may fall off,” answered Alano’s father, in a trembling voice.
All the while the conversation had been carried on he had been peering sharply ahead for the meadow and the water to appear. We now shot out of the woods, and on either side could be seen long stretches of swamp. He turned to us and spoke in English. “All ready to jump?”