I almost pitied the poor devils, they were in such hot water, with the terrible Yengees storming above and the explosive alcalde shouting execrations at them below.
It might have been amusing enough to a disinterested spectator, to see the labors of Hercules that Robbins and I performed, but to us it was a most serious matter, indeed.
My legs began to grow unsteady on account of so much unwonted exercise on a warm evening, and I could feel my tongue clinging to the roof of my mouth for want of moisture.
Still they came—I wondered if the supply were inexhaustible, whether we were pitted against the whole city of Bolivar.
At any rate, matters began to look exceedingly serious to me.
Unable to grasp the situation and squeeze any comfort out of it, I turned to Robbins for aid. He had a fertile mind, and might be able to stir up some promising idea.
Besides, Robbins was running the campaign, and knew what connection he had with other sources of strength.
When I found myself near him, I gathered my breath and gasped:
“It’s a bad go.”
He said it was, and his readiness to agree with me rather knocked the props from beneath my hopes.