“I?” O’Reilly lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness.  “When I try he gets sore at my heartless indifference; when I sympathize he declares I’m nudging him closer to his grave—­says I’m kicking the crutches out from under him.  He’s just plain vitriol.  I—­I’d rather live with an adder!”

O’Reilly’s youthful asistente, who at the moment was painstakingly manufacturing a huge, black cigar for himself out of some purloined tobacco, pricked up his ears at the mention of Branch’s name and now edged closer, exclaiming: 

“Carumba!  There’s a hero for you.  Meester Branch is the bravest man I ever seen.  Our people call him ’El Demonio’!”

O’Reilly jerked his head toward the Cuban.  “You see?  He’s made the hit of his life, and yet he resents it.  The Cubans are beginning to think he carries a rabbit’s foot.”

“No rabbit’s foot about it,” the captain asserted.  “He’s just so blamed thin the Spaniards can’t hit him; it’s like shooting at the edge of a playing-card.  Annie Oakley is the only one who can do that.”

“Well, my nerves are frayed out.  I’ve argued myself hoarse, but he misconstrues everything I say.  I wish you’d convince him that he has a chance to get well; it might alter his disposition.  If something doesn’t alter it I’ll be court-martialed for shooting a man in his sleep—­and I’ll hit him, right in the middle, no matter how slim he is.”  O’Reilly compressed his lips firmly.

The asistente, who had finished rolling his cigar, now lighted it and repeated:  “Yes, sir, Meester Branch is the bravest man I ever seen.  You remember that first battle, eh?  Those Spaniards seen him comin’ and threw down their guns and beat it.  Jesus Cristo!  I laugh to skill myself that day.”

“Jacket” was at once the youngest and the most profane member of Colonel Lopez’s entire command.  The most shocking oaths fell from his beardless lips whenever he opened them to speak English, and O’Reilly’s efforts to break the boy of the habit proved quite unavailing.

“Colonel Miguel,” continued Jacket, “he say if he’s got a hunnerd sick men like El Demonio he’ll march to Habana.  By God!  What you think of that?”

Judson rolled in his hammock until his eyes rested upon the youth.  Then he said, “You’re quite a man of arms yourself, for a half-portion.”

“Eh?” The object of this remark was not quite sure that he understood.

“I mean you’re a pretty good fighter, for a little fellow.”

“Hell, yes!” agreed the youth.  “I can fight.”

“Better look out that some big Spaniard doesn’t carry you off in his pocket and eat you,” O’Reilly warned; at which the boy grinned and shook his head.  He was just becoming accustomed to the American habit of banter, and was beginning to like it.

“Jacket would make a bitter mouthful,” Judson ventured.

The lad smiled gently and drew on his huge cigar.  “You betcher life.  That——­Spaniard would spit me out quick enough.”