The tall soldier nodded with a twinkle in his eye. Zaidos fell back in his bunk with a gasp of surprise, and listened.
“Is that so?” said the soldier. “I heard of the death of Count Zaidos the other day. So you are his heir, eh? I thought he had a son. Where does he appear in this story of yours?”
“He is dead,” said Velo. (It was he.) “He went to America, and has not been heard from. So I am the heir. I shall appeal to the King, I tell you!”
“All right; all right!” agreed the soldier, while the others, listening near, laughed. “At least it is a pretty story, Count. Stick to it. We like to hear you talk.”
“Well, it is so, and I can prove it!”
“How?” said Zaidos, suddenly leaning over the edge of his bunk.
For a full minute Velo stared at him with bulging eyes.
“How will you prove it?” said Zaidos with a steady stare. He leaped to his feet and, shoving the tall soldier out of his way, went to the berth and thrust his furious face close to his cousin’s.
“You won’t prove anything!” he said in a low, tense tone. “You have made a fool of yourself and of me. I won’t have my father’s name dragged into this mess. I’m here as Zaidos, the stoker; and you will forget Zaidos of Saloniki as fast as ever you can. And if I find you telling anything more, I will thrash you, Velo Kupenol, within an inch of your life. I can do it, too. I learned that in America, at least. And for the present we are in the same fix. We are here as common soldiers. My papers were stolen from me in barracks the night my father died, Velo, so there won’t be any proving at all. We are just a pair of stokers on a transport. But don’t think for a minute that I mean to stay where I am. A Zaidos cannot be kept in the hold. I shall do something for the honor of my name, you may be assured of that. But remember I am Zaidos, the stoker. As I said, if I find that silly tongue of yours wagging, I will make—you—good—and—sorry.”
He paused, and with keen eyes searched Velo’s face to make sure he comprehended it all.