When Johnnie had finished there was a long moment of silence.  Then Norine quavered, tremulously:  “That boy!  That blessed boy!”

Branch murmured, feebly:  “Dash water in my face, or you’ll lose me.  I—­You—­” He found no words to express his feelings and finally voiced his favorite expletive.

“It’s all too weirdly improbable,” O’Reilly smiled, “but ask Rosa or Jacket—­the boy is bursting to tell some one.  He nearly died because he couldn’t brag about it to Captain Morin, and there won’t be any holding him now.  I’m afraid he’ll tip off the news about that treasure in spite of all my warnings.  Those jewels are a temptation; I won’t rest easy until they’re safely locked up in some good vault.  Now then, I’ve told you everything, but I’m dying for news.  Tell me about yourselves, about Esteban.  I expected to find him well.  What ails him?”

“Oh, Johnnie!” Norine began.  “He’s very ill.  He isn’t getting well.”  Something in her tone caused O’Reilly to glance at her sharply.  Branch nodded and winked significantly, and the girl confessed with a blush:  “Yes!  You told me I’d surrender to some poor, broken fellow.  I’m very happy and—­I’m very sad.”

“Hunh!  He’s far from poor and broken,” Leslie corrected; “with a half-interest in a humpful of diamonds and a gold-plated well, according to Baron Munchausen, here.  This is the Cuban leap-year, Johnnie; Norine proposed to him and he was too far gone to refuse.  You came just in time to interrupt a drum-head marriage.”

“Is it true?” When Norine acquiesced, O’Reilly pressed her two hands in his.  “I’m glad—­so glad.”  Tears started to the girl’s eyes; her voice broke wretchedly.  “Help me, Johnnie!  Help me to get him home—­”

He patted her reassuringly and she took comfort from his hearty promise.

“Of course I will.  We’ll take him and Rosa away where they can forget Cuba and all the misery it has caused them.  We’ll make him well—­don’t worry.  Meanwhile, at this moment Rosa needs food and clothing, and so do I.”

As the three friends walked up the street they discovered Jacket holding the center of an interested crowd of his countrymen.  It was the boy’s moment and he was making the most of it.  Swollen with self-importance, he was puffing with relish at a gigantic gift cigar.

“I exaggerate nothing,” he was saying, loudly.  “O’Reilly will tell you that I killed Cobo, alone and unassisted.  The man is gone, he has disappeared, and all Matanzas is mystified.  This is the hand that did it; yonder is the weapon, with that butcher’s blood still on it.  That knife will be preserved in the museum at Habana, along with my statue.”  Jacket spied his chief witness and called to him.  “Tell these good people who killed Cobo.  Was it Narciso Villar?”

“It was,” O’Reilly smiled.  “The fellow is dead.”

There was renewed murmuring.  The crowd pressed Jacket closer; they passed the knife from hand to hand.  Doubters fell silent; the boy swelled visibly.  Bantam-like he strutted before their admiring glances, and when his benefactor had passed safely out of hearing he went on: