"Tell General Weyler," said I, "that Señorita Gypsy del Castillanos de Sierra de Santiago, of Newark, New Jersey, wishes to speak with him on affairs of national importance."
IN HIDING
I had resolved upon a bold stroke, and it worked to a charm. The General, who is mortally afraid of assassins, had been listening from his usual hiding-place behind the hat-rack. Pushing the hat-rack from before him, he stepped out into the hall, and, standing between me and the door, inquired threateningly if Newark, New Jersey, was not one of the dependencies of the United States. I answered him in fluent Spanish that it was, told him that I had lived there through no fault of my own for three years, had had to fly before a mob because of my pro-Spanish sympathies, and, travelling night and day, had come to lay before him a complete sketch of the fortifications of Newark, together with the ground-plan of Harlem, which, as I informed him, he would have to take before he could possibly hope to place Washington in a state of siege. I also gave him a chart showing by what waterways a Spanish fleet could approach and reduce Niagara Falls to ashes—a blow which would strike England and the United States with equal force, without necessarily altering the status quo ante with Great Britain.
The General, like the quick-witted soldier that he is, became interested at once. The lowering aspect of his brow cleared like the summer clouds before an August sun, and, with an urbanity which I had not expected, invited me to step into his sanctum. I accepted with alacrity. I cannot say that it was a pleasant room; it was in military disorder. Machetes and murderous-looking pistols were everywhere, and the chair to which I was assigned was a pleasant little relic of the Inquisition, and was so arranged that had the General so wished, the arms holding hidden iron spikes would fold about me at any moment and give me a hug I should not forget in a hurry. Added to this was a series of Kodak pictures of all the atrocities of which he was guilty while in Havana. These were framed in one massive oaken frieze running from one end of the room to the other, and labelled on a gilt tablet with black letters, "Snap Shots I Have Snapped, or Pleasant Times in Cuba."
This demonstrates that Weyler is one of those rarely fortunate people who take pleasure and pride in the profession they are called upon to follow.
"General," said I, once we were seated, "did it ever occur to you that if you were two feet shorter, and clean-shaven, with a different nose and a smaller mouth, and a shorter chin and a bigger brow, and less curve to your arms when you walk, you would resemble Napoleon Bonaparte?"
The General was evidently pleased by my compliment.
"Do you think so?" said he, with a smile which absolutely froze my soul.