"
Channing stared incredulously, and then threw back his head and
laughed with a shout of delight.
"They don't, do they?" he asked.
"Yes, they do, since you think it's so funny. If it hadn't been for
us the day you went over to Guantanamo the marines would have had you
arrested and court-martialed."
Channing's face clouded with a quick frown, "Oh," he exclaimed, in a
hurt voice, "they couldn't have thought that."
"Well, no," Keating admitted grudgingly, "not after the fight,
perhaps, but before that, when you were snooping around the camp like
a Cuban after rations." Channing recognized the picture with a laugh.
"I do," he said, "I do. But you should have had me court-martialed
and shot; it would have made a good story. 'Our reporter shot as a
spy, his last words were--' what were my last words, Keating?"
Keating turned upon him with impatience, "But why do you do it?" he
demanded. "Why don't you act like the rest of us? Why do you hang out
with all those filibusters and runaway Cubans?"
"They have been very kind to me," said Channing, soberly. "They are a
very courteous race, and they have ideas of hospitality which make
the average New Yorker look like a dog hiding a bone.
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