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"It's all one," said the sergeant, with a horse-laugh, "all of the corona de Aragon, as the Catalans say when they are ashamed of their country. But what induced you, Don Perrico, being from Sarragossa, where they are all as revolutionary as Riego, to leave the service of the Neapolitan woman and come over to Charles V.?" "Many things," answered the deserter.
"I have decide," said the General, "to buy not guns. I have to-day buy the insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the General Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame O'Brien." Mr. Kelley almost strangled. "Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish," he spluttered, "you're a swindler that's what you are!
They were few and short. The principal was, to fire upon any one of the prisoners who should so much as show himself at a window. By the light of the lantern which the corporal carried, Paco, who was still peering over the edge of the roof, distinguished the features of the new sentry. They were those of Perrico the Christino deserter.
And you, Master Perrico, though your father did keep a wine-shop, and your mother carry the brandy-keg, let me advise you to put your head under the fountain, and then lie down and sleep till your turn for sentry. It will come in an hour or two." "And where shall I be posted?" hiccuped Perrico, who, to all appearance, began to feel the effects of the strong Navarrese wine.
"An Arragonese," hastily interrupted Perrico, eager to vindicate himself from belonging to a province which the rough manners and harsh dialect of its inhabitants cause generally to be held in small estimation throughout the rest of Spain. "An Arragonese, from the siempre heroica Sarragossa."
One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55 Gen. Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena. The General was between a claybank and a bay in complexion, had a 42-inch waist and stood 5 feet 4 with his Du Barry heels.
Paco took it, raised it as high as he could in the air, and gradually depressing the neck, the wine poured out in a slender and continuous stream, which the muleteer, his head thrown back, caught in his mouth. The bottle was emptied without a single drop being spilt, or a stain appearing on the face of the drinker. "Bravo, Paco!" cried the soldiers. "Could not be better," said Perrico.
"Come, boys," cried he, "knock off from drinking, or you'll hardly go through your facings, if required." "Only one glass more, sergeant," cried Perrico. "There is still a pleasant tinkle in the borracha." And he shook the large leathern bottle which held the supply of wine. "Only one more, then," said the sergeant, unable to resist the temptation, and holding out his glass.
But that will be the easier, as neither wine nor money are likely to be over-abundant with us." At this moment, and before Perrico could reply to the sergeant's warning, the sentry in front of the house suspended his walk and uttered a sharp "Quien vive?" "Carlos Quinto," was the reply.
Perrico filled it to the brim, and afterwards did the same for three soldiers who still kept their places at the table, the others having composed themselves to sleep upon the benches round the room.
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