At first Tom did not seem disposed to agree, for he did not like being beaten; but I ordered him to dismount, his accidents tending so greatly to lengthen our journey. So the exchange of mules was made, and on we went once more.
“See, señor!” said the guide. “He is a pattern mule, is Juan; he goes like a lamb. It is a natural dislike that he has not learned to subdue. He does not know what good men and generous there are amongst the heretics.”
“Haw, haw, haw, haw! Look at that, Mas’r Harry—there’s a game!” roared Tom, for the guide had hardly done speaking, just as we were travelling pleasantly along, before Juan, the mule, stopped short, put his head between his legs, elevated his hind-quarters, and the next moment the guide was sitting amongst the stones staring up at us with a most comical expression of countenance.
“The beast has been cursed!” he cried angrily as he rose. “Car–r–r–r–r–r–r–r–ambo! but you shall starve for this, Juan!”
“Let me have another turn at him,” cried Tom, as he started off to catch the mule, which had cantered off a few hundred yards, and was searching about with his nose amongst the sand and stones for a few succulent blades of grass where there was not so much as a thistle or a cactus to be seen.
But Juan had no wish to be caught, and after leading his pursuer a tolerable race, he stopped short, and placed all four hoofs together, so as to turn easily as upon a pivot, presenting always his tail to the hand that caught at his bridle.
“Poor fellow, then! Come, then—come over,” said Tom soothingly.
But the only response he obtained was an occasional lift of the beast’s heels, and an angry kick.
“You ignorant brute, you can’t understand plain English!” cried Tom angrily.
“No, señor, he is a true Spanish mule,” said the guide, coming up.