“Yes, and a gay one, too, you bet,” he returned, with a sagacious nod of his sombrero.
“And you are in it—you, Robbins?”
“Up to my neck.”
“Not forty-eight hours landed in the country—well, you are a Yankee, sure enough. Have they put you up for president, my boy?”
He grinned—it was quite audible.
“Well, hardly, and me not knowing Spanish as she is spoke. Gen. Toreado is in line for that honor.”
“What! Our old acquaintance—the man we abused so handsomely? Well, it seems to me we’re between the upper and nether millstone, and stand a good show of being most beautifully pulverized—they’re all against us.”
“Not quite—fortune and little Carmencita—a good combination, you notice—have raised us up a few friends who’ll do their level best to see us out of the place safely.”
“That one’s easy enough—all they have to do is to take us by boat out on the harbor and deliver us on board.”
“Great Scott; you forget your yacht is a wreck, strewn on the shore.”