ROBBINS LAUNCHES A THUNDERBOLT.
My opinion of Hildegarde had undergone a most miraculous change of late.
Time was when I had been sorely inclined to believe her the most
frivolous and exacting of her sex; but a complete revolution seemed to
have taken place within my mind; old things had passed away, and in the
new dispensation she stood out in transcendental glory, a queen among
women.
Believing, then, that she possessed uncommon attributes of good sense,
I was quite positive she would not give tongue in such a clamorous way
unless she saw reason for it.
There was.
A galvanic shock could not have given me a more rapid start than
was brought about by her voice. I charged across that _azotea_ with
hurricane fury.
It did not take me long to understand what was up, for Hildegarde was
pointing to the parapet, where, in the starlight I could see some sort
of a figure crouching.
The man was in the act of crawling over, but when I made a plunge in
his direction he appeared to be seized with a sudden vertigo of fright,
for his haste to retreat caused him to lose his grip.
I heard him crash through the branches of a flowering tree below, and
made up my mind we would not be seriously inconvenienced by this same
climber again.
Where one had dared, there might be others.
I heard Robbins rushing along the escarpment opposite, and knew he had
also caught a glimpse of some daring chap.
It became quite lively just then, what with our mad plunges, the
battering on the trap, the resonant voice of our excited alcalde, and
the shouts of his henchmen.
How it would end, I must confess, I had not the remotest idea.
Suppose they kept up this harassing, guerrilla method of warfare
indefinitely, we must sooner or later find ourselves utterly tired out,
until finally we dropped from mere exhaustion.
For myself, I could see no remedy, unless we made a bold move, opened
the trap and fought our way through the lot; perhaps the bark of our
six-shooters might keep the enemy at bay until we reached the street.
What would happen then I had not the least idea--my mind refused to
grapple with so intricate a problem, especially while my body was so
vigorously engaged.
And, besides, with Hildegarde to protect, it was an utter absurdity.
The fun grew fast and furious, though for the time it was apparently
all on one side.
We tumbled several more citizens from their perch before they could
actually secure a footing on the roof, while others, seeing us
approach, withdrew to a lower and safer coign of vantage.
I almost pitied the poor devils, they were in such hot water, with the
terrible Yengees storming above and the explosive alcalde shouting
execrations at them below.
It might have been amusing enough to a disinterested spectator, to see
the labors of Hercules that Robbins and I performed, but to us it was a
most serious matter, indeed.
My legs began to grow unsteady on account of so much unwonted exercise
on a warm evening, and I could feel my tongue clinging to the roof of
my mouth for want of moisture.
Still they came--I wondered if the supply were inexhaustible, whether
we were pitted against the whole city of Bolivar.
At any rate, matters began to look exceedingly serious to me.
Unable to grasp the situation and squeeze any comfort out of it, I
turned to Robbins for aid. He had a fertile mind, and might be able to
stir up some promising idea.
Besides, Robbins was running the campaign, and knew what connection he
had with other sources of strength.
When I found myself near him, I gathered my breath and gasped:
“It’s a bad go.”
He said it was, and his readiness to agree with me rather knocked the
props from beneath my hopes.
“I’m nearly out of wind,” I ventured.
“Ditto,” he replied.
That was not very encouraging.
“What can be done?” I demanded, boldly.
“I know only one thing.”
“Then, let’s do it,” I shouted, as I made a wicked dash at a fellow who
showed his head above the line of our parapet barricade, and, having
caused him to temporarily suspend his intentions, I rushed back to
Robbins.
Even his last idea, _dernier ressort_ though it might be, offered a
gleam of hope.
“I hate to--it ain’t time by an hour--perhaps the whole thing might be
ruined,” he said.
“Hang it! let her ruin--we’re gone if something doesn’t happen pretty
quick,” I cried, desperately.
I might have continued in a similar vein, even growing satirical and
bringing in the early bird and worm fable to prove that it was no crime
to be an hour ahead of time--where would we be sixty minutes later if
this sort of thing kept up--but, really, I lacked both the time and
breath to say it.
Nor did I feel in a particularly jovial mood just then, with anxiety
for Hildegarde hanging like a millstone around my neck.
“I’ll do it,” said Robbins, vehemently, after the manner of an
impulsive man who has swept all obstacles aside.
“Eureka! let her go!” I shouted, and immediately resumed my Pawnee war
dance around the combing of the wall in order to convince all bold
spirits below what a dangerous thing it would be for any among them to
attempt the raid.
Now, I was in the blackest state of ignorance concerning my comrade’s
intentions--I knew not whether he expected to blow up the _hacienda_,
together with all in it, or, conjuring a balloon from space, carry the
three of us to a place of safety.
All the same, when he declared he would “do it,” I believed him, such
was the implicit confidence I placed in the man.
Besides, something had seemed to tell me all along that Robbins had a
card up his sleeve which he was loath to play except the game reached a
desperate stage.
My curiosity was naturally awakened, for I felt desirous of learning
just how far Robbins might have dabbled in the black arts, and what
manner of magician he would prove.
Never wizard who brought about more astonishing results.
I saw him run the gamut of the line, whacking away at one or two
imaginary heads in order to let those below know he was on duty.
This little promenade brought him slap up against the small tower where
the alcalde’s alarm bell hung, the same that had two nights previous
thrilled us with its clamorous harangue.
I saw him lean over, and something of the truth flashed upon me--he
groped until he had found the clapper, which with one mighty wrench he
dislocated, holding it in his hand after the manner of a hammer.
Then he started in.
With quick, energetic strokes, he rang the anvil chorus, each brazen
note smiting the air with the power of a cannon shot, and rolling over
old Bolivar as though a burst of tropical thunder had broken loose.
How it thrilled me!
As yet I had not fully grasped the whole idea--my first impression
seemed to be that Robbins was trying to create a diversion, to add
all he could to the clamor, under cover of which we might in some
way escape; just as the pearl diver, upon finding a man-eating shark
hovering above him, stirs up the sand until the water is no longer
clear, and he is able to gain his boat unseen.
For once, however, I failed to give my comrade sufficient credit.
He had a better plan than this.
There was a deep significance in the wild alarm that pealed out from
the brazen-throated bell under his throbbing strokes.
As I listened and wondered, I heard another bell begin to give tongue
some distance away. Then a third took up the refrain.
The air thrilled with the increasing din--I had never heard a greater
racket save in a boiler factory.
Nor was the noise confined to this one particular species of sound; men
of leathern lungs bellowed upon the streets, sometimes singly, anon in
chorus, guns were fired, and horns blown as vigorously as though it
were the Angel Gabriel with his trumpet on resurrection day.
Altogether, the ringing of the alcalde’s bell, sending those sharp,
strident notes, appeared to have been a signal success, if one could
count the noises of pandemonium as a criterion.
Of course, all this must have an effect on the forces by whom we were
assailed.
Would they consider it an encouragement to continue their attack--that
the whole city was up in arms, determined that this time the Americans,
the hated Gringoes, should not escape scot-free?
If so, of what avail would Robbins’ anvil chorus be--surely, we had our
hands full as it was, without fresh recruits.
I confess I was exceedingly stupid, it took me such an age to grasp the
truth, and once seen the wonder was how I had ever been able to miss it.
In a very few minutes the whole city was apparently engaged in the
wildest confusion imaginable--why, the night of the flower festa could
not begin to compare with this.
Squads and companies of men ran through the streets, bawling at the top
of their voices.
At first this did not strike me as in any way singular, until the
discharge of guns became more frequent, and the heavy detonation of the
brass cannon kept at headquarters brightened my intellect.
Then, thrilled by a sudden suspicion, I bent my ear to catch the word
these brawlers were constantly shouting--it was hard to accomplish
this, such was the awful jumble of sounds, but at length I succeeded.
“Toreado! Toreado!”
That was our old fire-eating general’s name; what Robbins had said
flashed into my mind, and in that second of time I realized what the
clang of the alarm bell had brought about, and that poor old Bolivar
was wrestling in the throes of another annual revolution.