Young Glory was gone, and the Irishman, mindful of his safety, hid himself amid the bushes, still keeping a watch on the house to which his comrade was going.
Young Glory walked boldly up to the hut, for it was no more, and hammered sharply on the door.
He had no cause for fear. He was dressed in the native costume, and spoke the language perfectly.
It was some few minutes before any one answered his summons, and then the door was opened by as villainous-looking a man as Young Glory thought he had ever set eyes on.
The man was apparently about forty years old, not tall, but broad-shouldered and strong.
"Good-day, comrade," said Young Glory, gayly.
The man growled forth a reply.
"Come, come, that's not very civil. A drink and a rest is what I should expect you to invite me to have."
"Go on expecting," answered the man, savagely, showing his teeth as he spoke. "It's all you'll get out of me, senor."
"You're not polite. Caramba! it's living alone ha
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