“Who knows,” he cogitated as the launch bore him swiftly shoreward, “but what I'll acquit meself with honour and get a fine job undher the new administhration? 'Tis the masther's fight, I'm thinkin'; then, be the same token, 'tis John Joseph Cafferty's, win, lose or dhraw; an' may the divil damn me if I fail him afther what he's done for me. Sure, if Gineral Ruey wins, a crook av the masther's finger will make me jefe 'politico. An' if he does—hoo-roo! Hoo-ray!”
With his imagination still running riot, Don Juan made the launch fast to the little dock, down which, he ran straight for the warehouse, where the Ruey mercenaries were still congregated, busily wiping the factory-grease from the weapons which had just been distributed to them from the packing-cases. A sharp voice halted him, he paused, panting, to find himself looking down the long blue barrel of a service pistol.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” the man behind the weapon demanded brusquely.
“I'm Private John J. Cafferty, the latest recruit to the Ruey army,” Don Juan answered composedly. “Who did ye think I was? Private secreth'ry to that divil Sarros? Man, dear, lower that gun av yours, for God knows I'm nervous enough as it is. Have ye somethin' ye could give me to fight wit,' avic?”
The man who had challenged him—a lank, swarthy individual from the Mexican border—looked him over with twinkling eyes. “You'll do, Cafferty, old-timer,” he drawled, “and if you don't, you'll wish you had. There's a man for every rifle just now, but I wouldn't be surprised if there'd be a right smart more rifles than men before a great while. Help yourself to the gun o' the first man that goes down; in the meantime, hop into that there truck and keep the cartridge belt for the machine guns full up. You're just in time.”
Without further ado Don Juan climbed into the truck. A little citadel of sheet steel had been built around the driver's seat, with a narrow slit in front through which the latter peered out. The body of the truck had been boxed in with the same material and housed two machine guns, emplaced, and a crew of half a dozen men crouched on the floor, busily engaged in loading the belts. Four motor bicycles, with sturdy, specially built side-cars attached, and a machine gun in each side-car, were waiting near by, together with a half-dozen country carts loaded with ammunition cases and drawn by horses.
“How soon do we start?” Don Juan demanded anxiously, as he crowded in beside one of his newfound comrades.
“I believe,” this individual replied in the unmistakable accents of an Oxford man, “that the plan is to wait until five o'clock; by that time all the government troops that can be spared from the arsenal and palace will have been dispatched to the fighting now taking place west of the city. Naturally, the government forces aren't anticipating an attack from the rear, and so they will, in all probability, weaken their base. I believe that eases our task; certainly it will save us many men.”
Don Juan nodded his entire approval to this shrewd plan of campaign and fell to stuffing cartridges in the web belting, the while he whistled softly, unmusically, and with puffing, hissing sounds between his snaggle teeth, until a Sobrantean gentleman (it was Doctor Pacheco) came out of the warehouse and gave the order to proceed.
They moved out silently, the Sobrantean rebels falling into line behind the auto-truck, the motorcycle battery, and the transport-carts, all of which were in charge of the machine gun company. They marched along the water-front for four blocks and then turned up a side street, which happened to be the Calle de Concordia, thus enabling Mother Jenks, who was peering from the doorway of El Buen Amigo, to see them coming.