"They're such fine weepins they must hev belonged to that thar Spanish
commander hisself," he said. "After all, a thing like this mightn't be bad
when you come to it right close. Mebbe Paul could handle it. You know Mr.
Pennypacker used to teach him how to swing the sword. This is how it goes:
Ah, ha! Sa ha! touched you thar! How's that my hearty!"
Shif'less Sol lunged at the night air, slashed, cut, swept his sword
around in circles, and then laughed again. But none of his exclamations
was uttered above a whisper. Henry was forced to smile.
"Put it down, Sol," he said, "and let's see what else we've got. It may be
that we've taken Alvarez's own private boat."
Sol opened the locker again, and held up a curiously shaped stone jug,
which he contemplated for a few moments. Then he took out the stopper,
smelled the contents, and looked appreciatively at his comrade.
"Henry," he said, "I'm going to risk it."
"It's no risk."
Sol turned the jug up to his lips, took a mouthful, which he held for a
moment or two, and then swallowed. After waiting a half minute he uttered
a deep sigh of content, and rubbed his chest.
"It tasted good all the way down, Henry," he said. "Here's something writ
over the label, but I guess it's Spanish, another o' them useless
tongues, an' so it tells nothin'.
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