“Not on your life,” George said, “not on your life. He is a Protestant, if you understand what I mean. And why is he a Protestant? Because he isn’t a low-down vegetarian secre-ciety Buddhist. Because he isn’t a Mahommedan. He might have been a Mahommedan. They offered him seven wives, if you understand what I mean, and he scorned the action. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m a Protestant,’ he said, ‘to blazes with your houris,’ he said. That’s right, isn’t it? That’s what he said. Isn’t it what you said?”
“Now, George Henderson, mind yourself now, or I’ll put a head on you which you’ll remember.”
“You’ll put a head on me? Who’ll put a head on me?”
“I will.”
“You silly blighter, we’re not in Ireland here, we’re talking religion at El Cobre.”
“No, we’re not talking religion,” O’Brien said; “we’re landing rum, and I’m going to see that we land it safely. What is this man but a spy?”
“He’s no spy,” Douglas said, “he’s a sailor like yourself.”
“Only he’s ate a damn sight less flapdoodle,” someone added.
“Well, if he’s no spy, what are we going to do with him?”
“Let him have Miguel and the horses and ride back to Las Palomas as he wants.”