“I think I can take care of myself without any help from you,” retorted Bill.—“Here is your money, Bark.”
“I won’t take it,” replied Bark.
“Why not?”
“You have insulted Mr. Raimundo ever since we started from Barcelona; and, after you say you have been swindled, I won’t touch your money.”
“Are you going back on me, after all I have done for you?” demanded Bill.
“What have you done for me?” asked Bark indignantly; for this was a new revelation to him.
“I got you out of the Tritonia; didn’t I?”
“No matter: we will not jaw about any thing so silly as that. I won’t touch your money till you have apologized to Mr. Raimundo.”
“When I apologize to Mr. Raimundo, let me know it, will you?” replied Bill, as he returned the sovereigns to his pocket, and coiled himself away in the corner. “That’s not my style.”
Nothing more was said; and, after a while, all of the party went to sleep. But Bill Stout did not sleep well, for he was too ugly to be entirely at rest. He was awake most of the night; but, in the early morning, he dropped off again. At seven o’clock the train arrived at Valencia. Bill was still asleep. Raimundo got out of the car; and Bark was about to wake his fellow-conspirator, when the second master interposed:—