“So far, so good, Punch,” said Pen. “I don’t know how we are going to get on about the next question.”
But again the task proved perfectly easy, for, laying his hand upon the goat-herd’s arm, he repeated the words “Soldado Inglés.”
“Si,” said the man directly; and he patted the lad on his shoulder. “Soldado Inglés.”
“Yes, that’s all right,” said Pen; “but, now then, look here,” And pointing with his hand to a spot higher up the mountain, he repeated the two Spanish words with a questioning tone: “Soldado Inglés?”
The man looked at him blankly, and Pen pointed in another direction, repeating his question, and then again away down a far-reaching valley lying westward of where they stood.
And now the Spaniard’s face lit up as if he fully grasped the meaning of the question.
“Si, si, si!” he cried, nodding quickly and pointing right away into the distant valley. “Soldado Inglés! Soldado Inglés!” he cried. “Muchos, muchos.” And then, thoroughly following the meaning of the lad’s questions, he cried excitedly, as he pointed away down the valley, where an occasional flash of light suggested the presence of a river, “Soldado Inglés, muchos, muchos.” And then he tapped the musket and belts and repeated his words again and again as he pointed away into the distance.
“Bravo amigo!” cried Pen.—“There, Punch, I don’t think there’s a doubt of it. The British forces lie somewhere over there.”
“Then if the British forces lie over there,” cried Punch, almost pompously, “that’s where the —th lies, for they always go first. Why, we shall be at home again to-night if we have luck. My word, won’t the chaps give us a hooroar when we march into camp? For, of course, they think we are dead! You listen what old O’Grady says. You see if he don’t say, ‘Well done, me boys! Ye are welkim as the flures of May.’ I say, ask him how many miles it is to where our fellows lie.”
“No, Punch, you do it.”