“Can I be sure you will not give your information to our enemy?” the general answered in a hard voice. “A spy is a danger we must always look for in war. We shoot them like that;” he snapped his fingers and showed his even white teeth in a cruel smile.
Phil did not dare look at his two friends, reduced to enforced silence.
The disguised American officers were bountifully supplied with food and pressed to stay over night under the general’s roof, but Phil felt it safer to be away from under the piercing black eye of this fiery little Spaniard.
“How did you feel, O’Neil, when the general spoke about spies?” asked Phil soberly, after they had left the house behind and were on the road again.
“I felt as if I were standing with my back against a wall, with a file of them dago soldiers shooting at me, sir,” answered the boatswain’s mate with a grin.
“I didn’t feel any too happy, either,” acknowledged Phil, “but I hope we can soon find out what we need to know and get back to the city before they suspect our mission.”
That night they slept in a little pueblo inside the insurgent lines and were on the road early the next morning.
During the forenoon they passed regiment after regiment of ragged soldiers. The lads inspected them carefully; their rifles were new and of a late pattern, and they seemed plentifully supplied with ammunition.
“I have counted no less than twenty pieces of artillery,” Sydney cried; and then pointing to a grove of cocoanut trees ahead of them, “and there is a whole battery of some kind of ordnance.”
“Syd,” Phil answered, “I believe we have seen enough already, though we can’t have seen the beginning, to report to our captain that this revolution is of a serious character and is probably going to win.”