"You'll make a fine-looking jailbird, my friend," mocked Tom, looking down
at the prisoner. "Nor did any man ever better deserve the striped suit
that the State of Alabama will present you. Now, Nicolas, I'll stay and
watch this black treasure while you run and find help."
"Senor, you go yourself," begged the Mexican. "The men will obey you more
queeckly than they would me."
"Oh, you find some of the men and tell 'em to come here to get the fellow
who has been blowing up the wall, and they'll come fast enough," smiled
Tom.
"But, Senor, suppose thees scoundrel free himself?"
"I won't let him, Nicolas."
"But eef he do?" persisted the Mexican. "Then, as I have shown you, Senor,
I can take fine care of heem!"
"There's something in that, too," laughed Tom. "Nicolas, I don't believe
it will be risking you any if I leave you here. Besides, I won't have to
be gone very long."
"If this black scoundrel he get restless, Senor, I will amuse heem with my
forefinger."
Sambo groaned; Nicolas grinned.
"All right," Tom Reade laughed. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
Away he raced at a dog-trot, chuckling. The contrast between bulky Sambo
and little Nicolas and the big negro's comic fear of the slim little
fellow kept Reade laughing.
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