“Good day, my Captain,” he cried, cheerily.

The Spaniard raised his head, scowled ferociously, then waved a long, thin-bladed knife in menacing fashion.

“Aha!  So there you are, robber!  Be off now before I slit your greedy little belly!” He spoke in an angry, husky voice.  When Jacket stood his ground he reached for him with a hand upon which blood and fish-scales had dried.  “Didn’t I promise to give you to the soldiers if you came back to bother me?”

Jacket was unabashed by this hostile reception.  He grinned broadly and with an impudent eye he scanned the empty premises.  “Where is my little fish?” he demanded.  “As I live, I believe you have sold it!  God!  What a miser!  For the sake of another centavo you would see me starve?  There’s a heart for you!”

“Your little fish!” roared the brigand, clashing his blade on the filthy counter.  “No shark ever stole so many fish as you.  Come, I shall make an end of you, and have some peace.  Starve?  You?  Bah!  Your body is like a gourd.”

“Yes, and quite as hollow.  I starve because you possess a heart of stone.  One little fish, no longer than your finger.  Just one?”

“Not so much as a fin!” cried the man.  “Can I feed all the rebels in Matanzas?”

“One little fish,” Jacket wheedled, “for the sake of Miguelito, who is bravely fighting in the manigua, to the shame of his miserly old father, fattening on the groans of good patriots like me!  Must I remind you again that Miguelito was my brother?  That I have robbed my own belly in order to give him food?”

“Liar!”

“It is true.”

“You never saw him.”

“Miguel Morin?  With a scar on his neck?  The bravest boy in all the Orient?  Ask him about Narciso Villar.  Come, give me my fish!  Or must I lie down and die before your very eyes to prove my hunger?”

“What a nuisance!” grumbled the marketman.  He reached into a basket and flung a mackerel upon the table.  “There!  I saved it for you, and sent the good women of Matanzas away empty-handed.  But it is the very last.  Annoy me again and I shall open you with my knife and put salt on you.”

“Ah!  You are my good captain!” Jacket cried in triumph, possessing himself of the prize.  “Where would I have been but for you?” Turning to O’Reilly, who had looked on from a distance at this artificial quarrel, he said, “Captain Morin, this is that brother Juan of whom I have told you.”

Morin smiled at Johnnie and extended his dirty palm.  “The little fellow can speak the truth when he wishes, it seems.  I began to doubt that he had a brother.  What a boy, eh?” Leaning closer, he whispered, hoarsely:  “It is cheaper to give him a fish than to have him steal a whole basketful.  But he is a great liar.  Even yet I’m not sure that he knows my Miguelito.”

“You have a son with the Insurrectos?”

“Yes.”  The fisherman cast a furtive glance over his shoulder.  “He is a traitor of the worst sort, and I don’t approve of him, but he’s a brave boy and he loves fighting.  Sometimes I get hungry to see him.”