“Then I will tell you. Because the more he conquers the more enemies he makes, and nowhere friends. There, you are growing weary.”
“Oh no,” cried Pen. “I shrank because I felt my wound a little more. I am glad to hear all this.”
“But your friend—no?” said the contrabandista.
“That’s because he cannot understand what you say; but I shall tell him all that you have said when we are alone, and then he will be as much your friend as I am, and quite as ready to fight in your cause, though he is a boy.”
“Good!” said the Spaniard. “And some day I shall put you both to the proof.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Punch proves sturdy.
“Thank you,” said Punch. “I didn’t want to bother you, you know, comrade, only you see I ain’t like you—I don’t know a dozen languages, French and Latin, and all the rest of them; and when you get on talking to that contrabando chap it worries me. Seems as if you are saying all sorts of things about me. He will keep looking at me all the time he’s talking. I’ve got to know a bit now that it’s meant for you, but he will keep fixing his eyes like a pair of gimlets, and screwing them into me; and then he goes on talking, and it makes you feel uncomfortable like. Now, you see, there was the other day, a week—no, it was nine days—ago, when you said when he was telling you all about the Spanish King coming here—”