Argosy, Vol. 1 (December 9, 1882) — page 237: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

230 THE ARGOSY. up to the ’ouse, hand the boys and Hi got into han arg’ment as to ’ow many Frenchmen we could do up apiece, when Billy Watts, the boatswain, shouted out, ‘ There goes Frenchy!’ “ Sure enough, there ’e was, disappearing over a sand dune like as though the devil was after ‘1m. Well, sir, we tried hour best to catch ‘im, but it warn’'t no use, hand we guve it hup.” Most men in Struthers’ place would have given Kent a fearful raking over the coals. But he only looked his captain straight in the eyes and said very quietly: “ Kent, I am very sorry this thing has happened—it may do us great harm. I hope it will be a lesson to you to obey orders more strictly in the future, and do less thinking on your own hook.” If Struthers had sworn a perfect volley of oaths at him, Kent could not have taken his remarks more to heart. He blushed under his weatherbeaten skin like a schoolgirl, and fidgeted about from one foot to the other while his em- ployer was speaking. When he had finished and ordered the boat launched, he rushed down to the gig, and for a few minutes the air was blue while the captain gave vent to his overwrought feelings as he issued orders to the crew. Jean Daron was to have taken charge of the sailors constituting the guard for the chateau, but shortly after his capture of Louis, be had mysteriously dis- appeared. Cottrell thought nothing of this, for it was quite characteristic of the little fellow to go off on some independent hunt. Very likely he was on a new scent. Possibly he had gone toward the home of the count to spy on him. The American felt sure that wherever he went or whatever he did, Jean could be depended on to give a good account of himself. ‘CHAPTER XITI.—Don ALonzo CAVARA. TOwArps dusk of the last day of the count’s furlough, a band of two to three score rough looking fellows were slowly descending the side of the last ridge of the Pyrenees on the French side. They were for the most part as wild a looking set of rufhans as could be found in all the continent. There was apparently no semblance of military order in their march or manner, but each fellow swaggered on after his own sweet will, stopping now and then to shoot at a covey of birds as they rose out of the woods, screaming and chattering at the men’s approach, or pausing to refresh themselves with a cooling draft from the mountain stream along whose course they were following. The same absence of uniformity was apparent in their attire. One wore a bolero jacket, knee breeches and round cap of the Spanish toreador (albeit torn and soiled by travel); another had the rough garb of a French peasant ; and between these two were all types and grades of dress imaginable. This motley crew, as diverse in temperament and breeding as in their clothing, was none other than the famous and much dreaded brigand band of Don Alonzo Cavara, on whose head was set a big price, and for whose cap- ture the military and police authorities of two countries were working night and day. GONG OOO UN ceo