I suppose we really do not know what fear is.  I inquired the name of the garrison of the fortress of Malabat, and they said it was Mehemet Ali Ben Sancom.  I said it would be a good idea to get some more garrisons to help him; but they said no, he had nothing to do but hold the place, and he was competent to do that, had done it two years already.  That was evidence which one could not well refute.  There is nothing like reputation.

Every now and then my glove purchase in Gibraltar last night intrudes itself upon me.  Dan and the ship’s surgeon and I had been up to the great square, listening to the music of the fine military bands and contemplating English and Spanish female loveliness and fashion, and at nine o’clock were on our way to the theater, when we met the General, the Judge, the Commodore, the Colonel, and the Commissioner of the United States of America to Europe, Asia, and Africa, who had been to the Club House to register their several titles and impoverish the bill of fare; and they told us to go over to the little variety store near the Hall of Justice and buy some kid gloves.  They said they were elegant and very moderate in price.  It seemed a stylish thing to go to the theater in kid gloves, and we acted upon the hint.  A very handsome young lady in the store offered me a pair of blue gloves.  I did not want blue, but she said they would look very pretty on a hand like mine.  The remark touched me tenderly.  I glanced furtively at my hand, and somehow it did seem rather a comely member.  I tried a glove on my left and blushed a little.  Manifestly the size was too small for me.  But I felt gratified when she said: 

“Oh, it is just right!” Yet I knew it was no such thing.

I tugged at it diligently, but it was discouraging work.  She said: 

“Ah!  I see you are accustomed to wearing kid gloves—­but some gentlemen are so awkward about putting them on.”

It was the last compliment I had expected.  I only understand putting on the buckskin article perfectly.  I made another effort and tore the glove from the base of the thumb into the palm of the hand—­and tried to hide the rent.  She kept up her compliments, and I kept up my determination to deserve them or die: 

“Ah, you have had experience! [A rip down the back of the hand.] They are just right for you—­your hand is very small—­if they tear you need not pay for them. [A rent across the middle.] I can always tell when a gentleman understands putting on kid gloves.  There is a grace about it that only comes with long practice.”  The whole after-guard of the glove “fetched away,” as the sailors say, the fabric parted across the knuckles, and nothing was left but a melancholy ruin.

I was too much flattered to make an exposure and throw the merchandise on the angel’s hands.  I was hot, vexed, confused, but still happy; but I hated the other boys for taking such an absorbing interest in the proceedings.  I wished they were in Jericho.  I felt exquisitely mean when I said cheerfully: