"Cheer up, old man," laughed O'Rourke. "We're not three miles from the coast, and I'll bet we are within ten of a village of some sort," he explained.
He was right, for by noon they were sitting at their ease before black coffee and a Spanish omelette, in a shabby eating-house. The town was one of some importance—in its own eyes. Also it interested Hemming. But O'Rourke sniffed.
"Gay colours and bad smells—I've experienced the whole thing before," said he.
"Then why the devil did you leave the Laura?" asked Hemming, pouring himself another glass of doubtful claret.
"To look after you," retorted O'Rourke.
"But, seriously," urged the Englishman.
"Oh, if you will be serious," confessed the freelance, "I'll admit that it's in my blood. I might have gone to New York and waited till further developments in Cuba; but I could no more see you go ashore, to waste your time and money, without wanting to follow suit, than you could see me buy that high-priced claret without wanting to drink it all yourself."
Hemming turned his monocle upon his friend in mild and curious regard.
"I doubt if there is another chap alive," he said, "who can write such wisdom and talk such rot as you."
"Oh, go easy," expostulated O'Rourke, "you've only read one article of mine—the twenty-page result of five weeks' sugar-cane and observation."