It seemed impossible that such resistance as they offered could wear down and conquer the resources of Spain, yet the very numbers and alertness of the Spanish troops argued a somewhat formidable opposition. Did it not also argue an all-pervading restlessness which might some day escape control? O'Reilly, of course, had no part in this quarrel: but it struck him as a wicked waste to destroy, to ravage, and to slay when settlement was so easy. The motive behind this prodigal extravagance of blood and gold was nothing but foolish resistance of a principle. A little yielding, a little diminution of harshness, a little compassion on the part of the mother country, and these men who were killing one another would embrace and proclaim their blood brotherhood. Pondering such thoughts as these, O'Reilly returned to his hotel. As he sat in the cafe, sipping an orangeade, he heard some one speaking in atrocious Spanish, and looked up to see that another American had entered. The stranger was a tall, funereal young man, with pallid cheeks and hollow, burning eyes: he was asking for ice-water, but what he said resembled anything except the language of the country. "Hey, George!" he cried. "Try gimme a vasso of agwa con yellow." He pronounced the words with elaborate pains. "Make it a long one." A waiter eyed him tolerantly, but with no faintest sign of understanding. "Agwa con yellow--agwa with ice. Ice! ICE!" the man repeated loudly. Still failing of a response, he shouted, "Don't you know what 'ice' is?" He wrapped his long, lean arms about himself and shivered. "Cold! Icie! Freezum! Br-r-r! Savvy?" Inspiration came to the waiter; a smile irradiated his countenance, and with a murmured apology for his stupidity he hurried away. O'Reilly stepped over to the stranger's table and introduced himself. "The hotel-keeper in Neuvitas told me I'd find you here," he said. "Your name is--" "Branch; Leslie Branch. So Carbajal said you'd find me here, eh? Oh, the greasy little liar. He didn't believe it. He thought his cooking would have killed me, long ago, and it nearly did." This time Mr. Branch's bony frame underwent a genuine shudder and his face was convulsed with loathing. "Did you try his butter? 'Made in Denmark' during the early Victorian period. I hate antiques--can't eat anything oily. Carbajal's in the Secret Service. Nice fat little spy." "So I suspected." Mr. Branch's beverage appeared at this moment. With a flourish the waiter placed a small glass and a bottle of dark liquid before him. Branch stared at it, then rolled a fiercely smoldering eye upward. "What's that?" he inquired. O'Reilly read the label. "It's bitters," said he.