“Do not use that word, Senor,” implored Nicolas.  “He is no good!  He is scoundrel!  He call me Greaser, an’ I will keeck off his head for eet!”

“Wait until we get him tied,” Tom proposed.

Sambo, by this time, had gained strength enough to sit up.  He was wondering whether he could rise to his feet and sprint away from this dangerous little fury of a Mexican.

“Wait, you black cloud!” cried Nicolas.  “I will put you down again!”

“Yo’ get away from me—–­please do!” begged Sambo, recoiling in terror.

“Sambo,” laughed Tom, “Africa shouldn’t have stirred up Mexico as you did.  Now, lie down on your face, place your hands behind you, and I will persuade him to let you alone.”

Sambo hesitated.

“Let me at him, Senor!” begged Nicolas, maneuvering forward, his right hand ready.  “He is no good, I tell you!  But I feex him!”

With a yell Sambo Ebony flopped over on his face, placing his hands behind his back.

“Let him alone, Nicolas, as long as he minds,” ordered Reade, catching the excited Mexican by the collar.  “Only, if he shows signs of making trouble then sail into him fast.”

No sign of trouble, however, was there in Sambo.  He lay as meek as a lamb while Tom used a lot of the spare cord in taking sundry hitches around the negro’s wrists.

“I don’t believe he’ll get out of that,” said Reade grimly, “Now, we’ll fix his feet.”

This, too, was done, and Sambo lay helpless on the ground.

“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.

“But where on earth did Nicolas learn that trick?” Tom wondered.  “I shall have to get him to show it to me.  Plainly that trick is worth more than all the muscle that I spent so many years in piling on.”