O’Reilly smiled, understanding now the reason for his companion’s reckless, almost frenzied use of soap and water that morning, and his cheerful stoicism in the hands of a volunteer barber more accustomed to the uses of a machete than a razor.

Evidently Judson had fallen, too—­along with Major Ramos, and Colonel Lopez, and Leslie Branch, and all the rest.  Well, it was to be expected.  Before he had been a week in Cuba O’Reilly had noticed that Miss Evans was a mystery and a delight to nearly every man she met.

“So you’ve got it, eh?” he inquired.

“Got what?” Judson did not turn his eyes.

“It.”

“It?  If you can’t talk English, talk Spanish.”

O’Reilly was not perturbed by this gruffness.  “I think her presence here is the silliest, the most scandalous thing I ever heard of,” said he.  “The idea of a girl of her accomplishments, her means, alone in Cuba!  Why, it’s criminal!”

Judson’s gunny-sacking hammock bulged beneath him.  It threatened to give way as he sat up with a jerk and swung his bare legs over the side.  His face was dark; he was scowling; his chin was pugnaciously outthrust and his voice rumbled as he exclaimed: 

“The deuce it is!  Say!  I don’t like the way you talk about that girl.”

“You don’t, eh?” O’Reilly eyed him quizzically.  “Would you care to have your sister do what she’s doing?”

“That’s not the point.  You can’t compare her with ordinary women.”

“Well, this isn’t an ordinary environment for a woman, no matter who she is.  These Cubans are bound to talk about her.”

“Are they?” Judson glared at the speaker.  “I’d like to hear ’em.  I’d like to see somebody get fresh.  Why, say!”—­he clenched his powerful hands—­“I’d fill their hospitals until they bulged.”  After a moment he continued:  “I s’pose it’s natural for you to worry, since you’re responsible for her being here, in a way, but--” His tone changed, he relaxed and lay back in his hammock.  “Oh, well, you’re about the only man I can’t hate.”

“Jealous, are you?  I didn’t know you were in so deep.”

The other shook his head.  “Oh, I’m daffy.  D’you think she’d have me?”

“Not a chance.”

“Hey?  Why not?  I’m a good big husky—­I’ll get a Government job when the war is over and—–­”

“That’s just the trouble.  She’ll fall for some poor, sickly unfortunate, with one leg.  She’s the sort that always does.  She’s the sort that has to have something to ‘mother.’  Lord, I’d give a good deal to see her safely back in New York!”

Judson, it seemed, had a better understanding of artillery than of women; he pondered O’Reilly’s statement seriously, and his face clouded.

“Some sickly fellow.  Some fellow like Branch, eh?” After a moment he continued, more hopefully:  “Well, it won’t be him; he’ll soon be dead.  There’s some consolation in that.  I could almost—­”