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 anything more'n a fight. But now we're nicely done, without fightin'."

"Yes, this here politeness may be only a little celebration," Alex mused. "It's cheap. For me, I'd prefer a dust or two, to keep us in trim."

There had been one bit of trouble, which had proved that the lieutenant, also, was not to be bamboozled. In the evening, at the village named San Juan, or St. John, the men and Stub were together in a large room assigned to them, when the lieutenant hastily entered. He had been dining at the priest's house, with Lieutenant Bartholomew; but now a stranger accompanied him—a small, dark, sharp-faced man.

The lieutenant seemed angry.

"Shut the door and bar it," he ordered, of John Brown. Then he turned on the stranger. "We will settle our matters here," he rapped, in French; and explained, to the men: "This fellow is a spy, from the governor. He has been dogging me and asking questions in poor English all the way from the priest's house. I have requested him to speak in his own language, which is French, but he understands English and would pretend that he is a prisoner to the Spanish—'like ourselves,' he alleges. I have informed him that we have committed no crime, are not prisoners, and fear nothing. We are