Then his voice became sarcastic, as he went on: “Senor, do you know how we Spaniards love you Yankees? Do you realize what happiness it would give us to caress you? To caress each and every one of your people--to caress them so?” Pausing in his agitated walk, Vasquez drew a knife, making a significant gesture of cutting a throat. “That is the way we would like to treat all you Yankees,” went on the Spaniard. “No! I mistake. That would be much too quick a punishment. We must be more ingenious in our punishment of the impudent Yankees--even as I propose to deal with you now.” Under that fierce, malicious gaze, Hal Maynard felt himself growing “creepy.” It did not afford him much satisfaction, even, to see Vasquez put away his knife, for the Spaniard’s word and manner left little doubt that the knife would be put aside only in favor of a more fearful method of revenge. “Senor, I ask you, for the last time, what did you do with the money?” “And I refuse to tell you a word.” “Did you understand that I was asking for the last time?” “Yes!” Hal fairly hurled the short, defiant retort. As Senor Vasquez realized that it was too late for parley, he raised his voice, shouting: “Pedro! Jose!” Instantly the door opened. Vasquez’s four agents filed into the room. “Bind the pig! Gag him!” directed the Spaniard, tremulously. These orders were swiftly carried out, for, though Hal Maynard struggled manfully, he was like clay in the hands of so many desperate fellows. Weights were tied to his feet. “He is ready,” voiced Vasquez, glaring at last at his helpless foe. “Pedro, open the shutters over there.” Out he was thrust, face down, his startled eyes gazing down at the muddy water of Havana harbor but a few feet below him. “Ready, my good fellows?” quivered Vasquez. “Ready, senor!” “Then drop him!” Through the darkness of the night shot a human form. Plash! Hal Maynard’s bound and weighted form sank below the foul waters. He had gone to share, in a different way, the fate of the Maine heroes! CHAPTER VI. CUBA’S NEW RECRUIT. Rub! rub! rub! Chafe! chafe! chafe! Under the shed over a wharf one human figure bent over another. Rub! rub! rub! With the quiet but energetic heroism of common humanity, the rescuer strove to bring back the spark of life to a young man only just snatched from the engulfing waters. “It is odd, strange!” muttered the rubber, pausing for an instant to look at the lifeless figure. “Can it be possible that I was too late--or that I am too clumsy?” He bent anxiously over the still figure. “It would be a great thing to fool Senor Vasquez,” murmured the Cuban, for such he was. “Moreover, I would like greatly to save this American, who trusted me even as I trusted him.” For some minutes more he continued to chafe the wrists and body of Hal Maynard. “A sip or two of brandy might save him--but how shall one get brandy, which costs twenty-five pesetas a bottle? Perhaps----”