IT would have been hard to guess at all the different emotions that
wrought within the heart of the convict boy when Diego’s angry and
cruel words checked his generous impulse to offer his good-will.
The chief among the emotions at first was humiliation; but jostling
the humiliation were grief, anger, bitter scorn, and regret at having
given room in his heart to his generous impulse; and he had not taken
ten steps away from Diego before it was anger that had control of him
and was coloring every other feeling. He would have turned then and
said something bitter to Diego, but he was accosted by Miguel, who
had watched him anxiously when he went to speak to Diego, and who had
grinned unpleasantly at his rebuff.
“So, the pious little priestling would have none of the jail-bird, eh?”
said Miguel, in a tone between sneering and sympathy.
“Would or would not,” answered Juan, ungraciously, “it concerns no one
but myself.”
He had resented Diego’s injustice and had just been telling himself,
with bitterness, that it was the last time he would make any effort to
do a good or generous thing; and yet, when it came to it, there was in
him a sudden distaste for Miguel’s kind.
He and Miguel had become acquainted in the prison, where, as the custom
was, all the prisoners had been herded together. The man had conceived
a fancy for the boy and had given him sympathy and encouragement,
and the boy, in his loneliness, had been grateful. Miguel had little
but wickedness to teach, and Juan had been so cast down and hopeless
that he had listened and learned. Nevertheless, he did not yet love
wickedness for its own sake, and the effect of his noble and generous
impulse had been the infusion of a new and better spirit in him.
It is probable that Miguel had an undefined notion of the change that
had taken place in Juan, and was so much disturbed by it that he was
bent on bringing him again under his influence. Unfortunately it was a
good time for an effort of that sort.
“That is true, too,” said Miguel, without showing any vexation; “but I
suppose a fellow must care a little if his friend is hurt.”
It was said in such an off-hand, hearty way that Juan felt ashamed of
his inclination to turn from his old friend. He began to yield in a
sulky fashion.
“Who said I was hurt?” he demanded.
“As if it wasn’t made plain enough! Don’t you suppose everybody who was
looking could see it? That’s what he wanted, the little priestling!”
“What do you mean?” asked Juan, quickly.
“What do I mean?” Why, can’t you see that he wants everybody to know
that it was you he kept out of trouble by not telling? He wants to put
you in the wrong, so that he will be the favorite on board.”
“I don’t see but he’s that anyhow,” said Juan.
“Perhaps he is,” retorted Miguel, “and isn’t that just the way of it
always? He is honest, he is, and you are only a jail-bird; and they all
forget that it was you who were to do the trick, and take all the risk,
so that we should all be safe back on land.”
“I’m not the only jail-bird,” said Juan, angrily.
“What difference does that make? The other jail-birds will be so
glad to make friends with the honest boy that you will get the cold
shoulder, see if you don’t, little brother!” Little brother was his pet
name for Juan.
“I don’t see why that should be,” said Juan.
“Weren’t you trying to make friends with him?” asked Miguel, cunningly.
It was a conclusive argument, and for a moment Juan had nothing to say.
Then he bethought him.
“He saved my life,” he said, as if that explained his attitude towards
Diego.
“Bah!” said Miguel. “Hadn’t you saved his first? If it hadn’t been for
you wouldn’t he be over there now?” jerking his thumb towards the water.
“Well, he said we were quits. I saved him and he saved me.”
“Just his mean, sneaking way,” said Miguel, with a show of indignation.
“If you hadn’t saved his life, yours would never have been in danger.
Saved your life! As if it were any more than he ought to have done!
Bah! the little priestling!”
It was a very plausible argument and it had weight with Juan. So Diego
was ungrateful then! And that was always the way with your honest folk!
All right then! The more he reflected on it, the more bitter he was,
and Miguel, seeing how it was working, kept a discreet silence.
“Yes,” said Juan, presently, “that is how it is. Once you are sent to
jail, it doesn’t matter how sorry you are for what you have done, the
honest folks won’t let you be anything else but a jail-bird. Why, he
stole something, himself; I was there when his cousin, Martin Alonzo,
said so.”
“And so was I,” said Miguel. “A pretty fellow, he, to hold his head up
and curl his lip at you.”
“Ah,” said Juan, angrily, “my turn may come yet!”
“And so it will, little brother,” said Miguel, in a whisper, “if you
will do as I bid you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am half afraid to tell you,” said Miguel, as if hesitating.
“Why should you be? But if you don’t wish to, don’t.”
“I am not sure,” said Miguel, “that you are not minded to turn honest.”
He said it as scornfully as if there were something very disgraceful in
honesty.
“Honest! not I. And if I wished to be, how could I? But anyhow,” he
added, on second thought, “what do you mean? I’m not going to steal
anything. Honest or not honest, I don’t like stealing.”
“You’re very particular,” laughed Miguel; “but this has nothing to
do with stealing. Wait till you get ashore and try to earn a living
honestly. Only wait till then, and we’ll talk about stealing. Oh, no!
this is quite another matter.”
“Well, what?”
“Do you wish to go this voyage, or not?”
“You know I don’t.”
“Are you with us, then, in deserting?”
“Do you think Martin Alonzo will give you the chance? I know him better
than that,” said Juan.
“We’ll make the chance. Don’t fret about that. You are with us, then?”
“Of course I am. I don’t see, though, how you are going to do it. What
is your plan, and how many are in it?”
“I can’t tell you the plan now, but I will the first time we are alone.
How many in the plan? Only ten yet; you make eleven. Oh, we will never
go this voyage; and, what is more, you shall settle your score with the
little priestling.”
It was plain enough that his dislike of Diego was as great as Juan’s
possibly could be.
“Hm!” grunted Juan, who did not lack for penetration, “and settle
yours, too, I think; though I don’t see why you hate him so.”
“Ah! don’t you? Well, I do. It’s because he’s a spoil-sport and wants
to play the honest.”
Miguel’s reason was genuine as far as it went; but his chief grievance
against Diego was the fear that he was in a fair way to infect Juan
with his ridiculous honesty. He was relieved of any immediate fear
of that now, however, and he left Juan to watch the nearing islands,
while he went to sound more of the men on the subject of the proposed
desertion.