“Jim,” exclaimed Terry, suddenly glancing up, “there is no doubt that these unwashed scoundrels very strongly object to our presence here, for some reason or other; I don’t much like the idea of running away, but since we are outnumbered by about ten to one I really think that discretion will prove the better part of valour in the present case. Let us pay our score at once, and get out—if we can,” he added under his breath.
The lads rose to their feet and walked, as unconcernedly as they could, toward the counter, upon which Terry rapped with a coin, to attract the landlord’s attention. But that gentleman had, for some reason or other, vanished, and, rap as they might, no one put in an appearance; while all the time the crowd continued steadily to close in on them, with angry looks and threatening gestures.
“Come away, Terry,” whispered Douglas; “we must not stand on ceremony any longer. We shall have to make a bolt for it, or we shall not get out at all; put your pistol in a side-pocket, so that you can get at it easily, and then come along.”
Under cover of one of the tables the lads shifted their revolvers from one pocket to the other, and then began to walk toward the door; but no sooner had they started than, with a hoarse growl of rage, a score of men, drawing daggers and knives from various portions of their clothing, dashed at the boys, upsetting chairs and tables as they came, and evidently bent upon taking their lives, if possible.
As a matter of fact it was only the obstructive presence of the numerous tables and chairs that saved the two lads from that first wild rush. With all the agility of youth they sprang back to the corner where they had taken their meal, put their backs against the wall for safety’s sake, and drawing their pistols, presented them at the crowd of furious men, Terry inquiring, at the same time, in the best Spanish he could muster, the meaning of this murderous assault.
Seeing the muzzles of the deadly revolvers pointed at them, their assailants paused for a few seconds, while one of the men—a gigantic Chilian with a blanket poncho over his shoulders—took it upon himself to answer the lad’s inquiry.
“Why are we going to kill you, you dogs?” he roared. “Why?—because you are a brace of Peruvian spies. Caramba! we know very well why you have come here; but neither of you shall leave this place alive. We have a quick way with people of your stamp in this country.”
“But,” exclaimed Douglas, at the top of his voice, “you are all making a mistake; we are no Peruvian spies, but a couple of British sailors, who have left our ship, the Pericles, in order to enlist in the Chilian navy, and fight against the Peruvians, not for them. We are merely waiting for the offices to open, in order to proceed there and give in our names as candidates for service.”
The only reply to this statement was a volley of oaths and mocking laughter, interspersed with the words “liar,” “traitors,” and “Kill the Inca dogs”; while, recovering from their momentary alarm at the sight of the pistols, the crowd again began to surge forward toward the two lads. The situation was becoming exceedingly critical; therefore, again raising his revolver, Douglas pointed it straight at the foremost man and shouted, “One step farther and I fire!”
The fellow hesitated for the fraction of a second, then his hand shot forward swiftly as a flash of lightning, and the knife which it had held, missing Jim’s ear by a hair’s-breadth, stuck quivering in the panelling behind him.