“Now, boy,” said the man, “it was your doing that I taught you a bit of soldiering, and a nice row there’ll be about it some day when he finds us out; so now I’m just going to show you, if you’re not too tired, how one good Roman can fight six enemies and beat ’em, same as we’ve often done in the good old days when I wore my armour and brass helmet with its plume, not a straw hat and things like these. Ah, boy,” said the man, drawing himself up and shouldering his crook as if it were a spear, “those were grand old times! I was a better man then than now.”
“No, you weren’t, Serge, not a bit,” cried the boy. “You must have always been what you are now—a dear good old chap who’d do anything for me.”
The fierce-looking old fellow smiled pleasantly, literally beaming upon the boy, whom he patted on the shoulder.
“Ah,” he said, “but there was no you then. But never mind all that. Hark!” he continued, softly, as a whispering was heard beyond the door, “They know we are coming, and they’re thinking about making a rush when I open the door. But they’d better not try; you’d pin some of them, wouldn’t you, Lupe?”
The dog uttered a low, deep, thundering growl.
“That’s right, boy. Now, Marcus, my lad, if you feel too tired, say so, and we’ll keep them till the master comes.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” cried the boy. “He’d only talk to them and scold them, and then let them go, after forgiving them for stealing the grapes.”
“That’s right, boy; so he would.”
“And they’d all laugh,” cried Marcus, “and come again.”
“But they won’t after the welting you are going to give them, boy—if you are not too tired.”