Angel said no more, and Rick wondered for a moment. What had Nast really said? He decided that it wasn't of any importance. Perhaps Nast was one of those Americans who always talk to people of other lands in a half-insulting way. Rick had met them—and mighty poor advertisements for America they were.
They parked the truck behind the hotel and took Angel to their room. "We'll get help and have the crates carried down for you." Rick said.
Angel grinned. "Why bother? You two take one and I'll take the other."
The boys looked at each other. True, the crates weren't huge, but each was a hefty load for two men.
"Stop bragging," Scotty said. The jocular tone of his voice made a playful challenge of the words.
Angel took the challenge. He went to the largest crate, swung it easily to his head, and balanced it with one hand. "Let's go," he said, grinning.
Scotty stepped forward, blood in his eye, and tackled the second crate. He got it up, but it was obvious that it was too much of a load even for his above-normal strength. Rick lent a hand and they carried the crate along behind Angel, who walked as though he had a feather pillow balanced on his head.
"Manotok the Mighty," Scotty said, and there was genuine awe in his voice.
Angel pronounced his name in the Spanish style, Ahng-hel, but now he shifted to the English pronunciation and said, "I'm an angel, and my strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure."
The boys laughed. "That was first applied to Galahad, wasn't it?" Rick asked.