“Who were—the Indians?”
“The Indians? No; the Spanish.”
“He will not talk about the powder business,” I said to myself. “He always turns it off.”
“You see, sir,” he continued, as he softly rubbed the barrel of his piece to get rid of some of the rust that had encrusted it, “they expected to find us a set of quiet spade-and-hoe-and-wheelbarrow sort of people, quite different to them, as are looked upon as being so warlike and fierce.”
“And so we are, Morgan.”
“And so we are, lad. We came out here to dig and live, and be at peace, with our barrows; but that doesn’t mean that we haven’t got the fighting stuff in us, ready for use when it’s wanted. I don’t want to fight, and I save my fists for digging, but they are fists all the same, sir.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Yes, of course, sir. But they Spanish didn’t understand that. They thought that in spite of what was said last time they came, all they had to do was to make a show, and order us off, and we should go; so they made a show by shooting at the Indians; and I’ll be bound to say that every time the Spanish officers cried ‘fire!’ they thought they were frightening us too.”
“But they didn’t, Morgan.”
“Not a bit, sir. Wrong stuff. They made a great big mistake, and when they get back to Flori— what is it?”