"So YOU'VE got it, eh?" he inquired.
"Got what?" Judson did not turn his eyes.
"It."
"It? If you can't talk English, talk Spanish."
O'Reilly was not perturbed by this gruffness. "I think her presence here is the silliest, the most scandalous thing I ever heard of," said he. "The idea of a girl of her accomplishments, her means, alone in Cuba! Why, it's criminal!"
Judson's gunny-sacking hammock bulged beneath him. It threatened to give way as he sat up with a jerk and swung his bare legs over the side. His face was dark; he was scowling; his chin was pugnaciously outthrust and his voice rumbled as he exclaimed:
"The deuce it is! Say! I don't like the way you talk about that girl."
"You don't, eh?" O'Reilly eyed him quizzically. "Would you care to have your sister do what she's doing?"
"That's not the point. You can't compare her with ordinary women."
"Well, this isn't an ordinary environment for a woman, no matter who she is. These Cubans are bound to talk about her."