The big Rifleman set his straight back against the door, planted his feet firmly on the floor so that his body formed an obtuse angle, and crossed his arms on his breast. The knocking continued.
"Can't come in," shouted a shrill-voiced ensign. "We're busy."
From outside an angry voice bawled in reply.
"Be quiet, you fellows," cried Smith. "Let us hear who it is."
The noise inside the room was hushed, and through the door came muffled tones of angry and excited remonstrance.
"It's very bad language, but I can't understand it," said Smith, who now had his ear against the oak. "Here, Jack, you're the only fellow who knows the lingo; leave that drain-pipe and see if you can make anything of it."
Jack rose from his wriggling seat, and, going to the door, shouted "Who are you?" in Spanish. A moment later he turned to the company and said: "By George! it's the regidor himself. We'd better let him in."
"Not till I've licked you," said Pomeroy. "Let the old boy wait."
"That's Pommy all over," said Smith; "I'm Reginald Pomeroy, and hang civility! The regidor's our host, and we owe him a little consideration."
"Exactly," put in Jack. "Heave over, Giles, and let me open the door."