“Your father needn’t have talked to me like that. ’Tisn’t likely that I should join in such a fight as this.”
“Of course not,” said Poole coolly; “only you look rather warlike carrying that double gun.”
“Absurd! A sporting piece, loaded with small shot!” cried Fitz.
“Not so very small,” said Poole, laughing. “I shouldn’t like it to be loaded with them by any one firing at me. Oh, there’s the hacienda yonder. I heard of this place when I was here before. It’s a sort of summer-house near the river and sea, where Don Ramon used to come. My word, though, how it seems to have been knocked about! It looks as if there had been fighting here. The grounds have all been trampled down, and the porch has been torn away.”
“What a pity!” cried Fitz, as he trotted up, with his gun at the trail. “It must have been a lovely place. Oh, there are some of our men.”
“Yes,” said Poole, smiling to himself and giving a little emphasis to one word which he repeated; “there are some of ‘our’ men. Look at old Chips scratching his head.”
For the carpenter on hearing their approach had stepped out into the wrecked verandah, and two or three of the sailors appeared at the long low windows belonging to one of the principal rooms.
“Oh, here y’are, Mr Poole, sir!” cried the carpenter, waving his navy straw hat and giving it two or three vicious sweeps at the flies. “Just the very gent as I wanted to see. How are yer, Mr Burnett, sir? Warm, aren’t it? Don’t you wish you was a chips, sir?” he added sarcastically, as Fitz gave him a friendly nod.
“A chips? A carpenter, Winks?” said Fitz. “No; why should I?”
“Of course not, sir. Because if you was you would be every now and then having some nice little job chucked at your head by the skipper.”