The road, when he came to it, proved to be a deep gutter winding between red-clay banks cut by the high wheels of clumsy cane-carts.  Inasmuch as no crops whatever had been moved over the road during the past season, it was now little more than an oozy, sticky rut.  Not a roof, not a chimney, was in sight; the valley was deserted.  Here was a fertile farming country—­and yet no living thing, no sound of bells, no voices, no crowing cocks, no lowing cattle.  It was depressing to O’Reilly, and more, for there was something menacing and threatening about it all.

Toward noon the breeze lessened and it became insufferably hot.  A bank of clouds in the east promised a cooling shower, so Johnnie sought the nearest shade to wait for it, and took advantage of the delay to eat his slender lunch.  He was meditatively munching a sweet-potato when a sound at his back caused him to leap to his feet in alarm.  He whirled, then uttered an exclamation of amazement.  Seated not fifty feet away was a bare-legged boy, similarly engaged in eating a sweet-potato.  It was Jacket.  His brown cheeks were distended, his bright, inquisitive eyes were fixed upon O’Reilly from beneath a defiant scowl.

“Jacket!” cried the man.  “What the devil are you doing here?”

“You goin’ to let me come along?” challenged the intruder.

“So!  You followed me, after I said I didn’t want you?” O’Reilly spoke reproachfully; but reproaches had no effect upon the lad.  With a mild expletive, Jacket signified his contempt for such a weak form of persuasion.

“See here now.”  O’Reilly stepped closer.  “Let’s be sensible about this.”

But Jacket scrambled to his feet and retreated warily, stuffing the uneaten portion of the sweet-potato into his mouth.  It was plain that he had no confidence in O’Reilly’s intentions.  Muttering something in a muffled voice, he armed himself with a stout stick.

“Come here,” commanded the American.

Jacket shook his head.  He made a painful attempt to swallow, and when his utterance became more distinct he consigned his idol to a warmer place than Cuba.

“I’m a tough kid,” he declared.  “Don’t get gay on me.”

The two parleyed briefly; then, when satisfied that no violence was intended him, the boy sat down to listen.  But, as before, neither argument nor appeal had the slightest effect upon him.  He denied that he had followed his benefactor; he declared that he was a free agent and at liberty to go where he willed.  If it so chanced that his fancy took him to the city of Matanzas at the same time O’Reilly happened to be traveling thither, the circumstance might be put down to the long arm of coincidence.  If his company were distasteful to the elder man, O’Reilly was free to wait and follow later; it was a matter of complete indifference to Jacket.  He had business in Matanzas and he proposed to attend to it.  The boy lied gravely, unblushingly.  Nevertheless, he kept a watchful eye upon his hearer.