“Unless I am mistaken, Gorham, ye have it in mind to tackle a job that looks a couple of sizes too large for you. Will ye start a ruction with Jiminez?”
“Until the colonel gets on his legs I’m the man to take charge of the party, sir,” answered the soldier, reflectively rubbing the bald spot which shone through his thinning thatch of sandy hair.
“But I expect to take a hand,” petulantly declared the captain. “This is my ship.”
“Excuse me, sir,” and Gorham’s accents were most apologetic. “This is your ship, but it ain’t your party. The patriots are a separate command. The big nigger belongs to me. If I don’t discourage him, I lose all chance of winnin’ promotion in the Cuban army. If he downs me, I’ll be called a yellow dog from one end of the island to the other. I intend to earn my shoulder-straps.”
“And you will climb this big, black beggar, and thank nobody to interfere?” asked the admiring Captain O’Shea.
“It is up to me, sir.”
“You strain me patience, Gorham. If ye have any trinkets and messages to send to your friends, better give them to me now.”
Said the chief engineer when the soldier was out of ear-shot:
“Does he really mean it, Cap’n Mike? He’ll sure be a homely-lookin’ corpse.”
“Mean it? That lantern-jawed lunatic wouldn’t know a joke if it hit him bows on.”