"Awful country," he grumbled. "Decent food ungetable, decent beds unknown. Tobacco--ugh! it'd sicken a Billingsgate porter! But this business interests me. Why? you ask. Here's why. Fair play is a thing I like; foul play gets up my dander. Of course I know the whole story now. This cousin chap first took food and lodging from your father and pretended gratitude; then he managed to work things so as to have you impressed. There I owe him a grudge; for if he hadn't, where should I be, eh?" "Eh?" repeated Tom, a little puzzled. "That's just it," went on the ensign in an aggrieved tone of voice. "Who'd have had the command of those French troopers? Who'd have brought them through that mess? Who'd now be promoted to the command of a regiment of guerrillas?" He might have been the most injured of individuals, to look at him. Jack rose to his feet and bashed the offending pipe heavily on a table. And then he grinned at Tom. "My uncle!" he exclaimed; "you are a flat! Yes, even if you are my superior, I can call you that. Took everything I said as if it were meant seriously. Where should I have been, eh? Dead, Tom--dead as a bullock. Shot outside that Portuguese church, and cut to mincemeat by those rascals. But this business of yours interests me solely because you happen to be a pal of mine, and in my opinion very much injured. This José is a scoundrel. What's more, I believe him to be at the bottom of all these troubles. He's that spy, sir, I declare! He's the very same scoundrel who crept in here with the idea of doing you a mortal mischief. There, think it out, and don't wonder if I am a little interested in this curious and blackguardly mystery." Could this really be the case? Was José de Esteros not only the rascal who had caused Tom's impressment, as we know, and Tom and his friends now knew, to be the case; but also, was he the treacherous ruffian who had been feeding the enemy with news of Wellington's movements, whose messenger our hero had displaced outside Ciudad Rodrigo? Could Tom's cousin be the selfsame villain who had abducted his father and uncle, and who later on had endeavoured to creep into this house in Badajoz and murder the gallant officer so nearly killed in the storming? "Humbug!" Tom declared, nursing the arm which he had worn in a sling since receiving his injuries. "I grant that José was the cause of my impressment. There I owe him a grudge, Jack." "Eh?" asked the adjutant, stoking his pipe with a finger and pulling at it vainly. "How?" "Been troubled with a certain Jack Barwood ever since," came the serious answer. And then Tom went off into roars of laughter, while Jack pretended indignation.