During the next few days O'Reilly had reason to bless the happy chance which had brought Norine Evans to Cuba. During the return journey from San Antonio de los Banos he had discovered how really ill Esteban Varona was, how weak his hold upon life. The young man showed the marks of wasting illness and of cruel abuse; starvation, neglect, and disease had all but done for him. After listening to his ravings, O'Reilly began to fear that the poor fellow's mind was permanently¹ affected². It was an appalling³ possibility, one to which he could not reconcile himself. To think that somewhere in that fevered brain was perhaps locked the truth about Rosa's fate, if not the secret of her whereabouts, and yet to be unable to wring⁴ an intelligent answer to a single question, was intolerable. The hours of that ride were among the longest O'Reilly had ever passed.  
But Norine Evans gave him new heart. She took complete charge of the sick man upon his arrival in camp; then in her brisk, matter-of-fact way she directed O'Reilly to go and get some much-needed rest. Esteban was ill, very ill, she admitted; there was no competent doctor near, and her own facilities for nursing were primitive⁵ indeed; nevertheless, she expressed confidence that she could cure him, and reminded O'Reilly that nature has a blessed way of building up a resistance to environment. As a result of her good cheer O'Reilly managed to enjoy a night's sleep.
 
Leslie Branch was later than the others in arriving, for the baby proved to be a trial and a handicap. His comrades had refused him any assistance on the homeward journey. They expressed a deep, hoarse⁶ condemnation⁷ of his conduct, and pretended to consider that he had sacrificed all claims to their friendship and regard.
 
Branch took this seriously, and he was in a state bordering upon desperation when he reached camp. In the hope of unloading his unwelcome burden upon Norine Evans he hurried directly to her tent. But Norine had heard the story; Lopez had warned her; therefore she waved him away.
 
"Don't ask me to mother your stolen child," she said.
 
"Oh, but you've GOT to," he declared in a panic. "You've just GOT to."
 
"Well, I won't. In the first place, I have a sick man in my tent."
 
"But look! Listen! This baby dislikes me. I've nearly dropped it a dozen times. I—I'm going to leave it, anyhow."
 
But Norine remained firm in her refusal. "You sha'n't leave your foundling at MY door. If you intend to steal babies you should make up your mind to take care of them." She was itching⁸ to seize the hungry little mite⁹, but she restrained the impulse. "Go ahead and keep it amused until the cow arrives," she told him.
 
"Keep it AMUSED! Amuse a starving brat¹⁰!" tragically¹¹ cried the man. "In
Heaven's name, how?"
"Why, play with it, cuddle it, give it your watch—anything! But don't allow it to cry—it may injure itself."
 
Branch glared resentfully; then he changed his tactics and began to plead. "Oh, Norine!" he implored¹³. "I—just can't do it. I'm all fagged out now, and, besides, I've got the only watch in camp that keeps time. I didn't sleep any last night, and it'll keep me awake all to-night. It's a nice baby, really. It needs a woman—-"
 
Norine parted the flaps of her tent and pointed¹⁴ inside, where Esteban
Varona lay upon her cot. His eyes were staring; his lips were moving.
"Mrs. Ruiz and I will have our hands full with that poor chap. For all
we know, he may have some contagious¹⁵ disease."
Branch was utterly¹⁶ shameless, utterly selfish and uncompassionate. "I'm sick, too—sicker than he is. Have a heart! Remember, I risked my life to get you something nice to eat—-"
 
"Yes! The most ridiculous procedure I ever heard of. What ever made you do such a crazy thing?" Norine was honestly indignant now.
 
"I did it for you. It seems to me that the least you can do in return—-"
 
"The least, and the most, I can do is to try and save this poor man's life," she firmly reasserted. "Now run along. I'd take the baby if I could, but I simply can't."
 
"It'll die on me," Branch protested.
 
"Nonsense! It's the healthiest little thing I ever saw. Wait until it has its supper. You'll see." She disappeared into her tent and Branch reluctantly turned away.
 
Next he bore the infant to Judson and O'Reilly in turn; but both gruffly refused to assume the least responsibility for it. In the matter of advice concerning its welfare, however, they were more obliging. They were willing to discuss the theory of child-rearing with him as long as he would listen, but their advice merely caused him to glare balefully and to curse them. Nor did he regard it as a mark of friendship on their part when they collected an audience that evening to watch him milk the cow—a procedure, by the way, not devoid¹⁷ of excitement and hazard, inasmuch as Branch's knowledge of cows was even more theoretical than his knowledge of babies.
 
Leslie had begun by this time to realize that there existed a general conspiracy¹⁸ against him; he met it with sullen¹⁹ resentment²⁰. He deeply regretted his ignorance of the Spanish language, however, for a thousand epithets²¹ and insults clamored for translation.
 
Now there are cows which an amateur can milk, and there are other kinds. This particular cow was shy, apprehensive²², peevish²³; Branch's unpractised fumbling²⁴ irritated her. Being herself a nomad²⁵ of the savannas²⁶, she was accustomed to firm, masterful men, therefore when Leslie attempted courteously²⁷, apologetically, to separate her from her milk she turned and hooked him.
 
El Demonio's audience, who had been looking on with rapt attention, applauded this show of spirit. Branch was unwontedly meek²⁹. He acknowledged his total inexperience, and begged his friends, almost politely, to call for a substitute.
 
Judson explained, gravely, "These Cubans don't know any more about cows than you do."
 
O'Reilly agreed, "They're good bull-fighters, but they can't milk."
 
Leslie eyed the speakers, white with rage; he was trembling. "You think
you're damned funny, don't you? You're having a jubilee³⁰ with me. Well,
I'm game. I'll go through with it. If you'll hold her, I'll milk her.
I'll milk her till she hollers."
Obligingly, O'Reilly took the animal by the horns and Judson laid hold of her tail.
 
"Stretch her tight," Leslie commanded. "Don't give her an inch of slack, or I'll quit." When his friends had braced³¹ themselves he moved toward the cow once more, but this time from the opposite quarter. Noting the direction of his approach, the onlookers³² gave vent³³ to a low murmur³⁴ of expectancy³⁵. They drew closer. Strangely enough, the animal stood quiet for a time—lost in amazement³⁶, perhaps—and Leslie managed to cover the bottom of his big tin cup with milk. But at last the outrage³⁷ proved too much for her; she slowly lifted one hind³⁸ foot and poised³⁹ it jerkily. She seemed to consider the next move for a moment; then she kicked forward and sent Branch flying.
 
"Can you beat that?" O'Reilly exclaimed in apparent wonderment. "Why, she walloped you with the back of her hand."
 
Judson, too, affected great amazement. "Most cows are left-handed," he declared. "Try her on the other side."
 
Branch dried the milk from his face, then in a shaking voice cried:
"Have a good time with me. It's your last chance."
It seemed for a while that the enterprise was doomed⁴⁰ to failure; but at last a pint⁴¹ or more of milk was secured, and this Leslie proceeded to dilute⁴² with warm water from a near-by camp-fire. Even then, however, his difficulties were not over. He had supposed that any baby knew enough to drink. It took him half an hour to discover his mistake. Having long since given up the hope of any active assistance from his audience, he doggedly⁴³ set to work to fashion a nursing-bottle. He succeeded in due time, after making use of a flask⁴⁴, the stem of an unused cigarette-holder, and a handkerchief.
 
When he finally took seat and began awkwardly coaxing⁴⁵ the fretful child to drink, the Cubans voiced their appreciation⁴⁶ of the picture. They were courteous²⁸, they did not laugh; nevertheless, the sight of their eccentric, irascible, rebellious⁴⁷ El Demonio tamely nursing a child in the fire-light filled them with luxurious⁴⁸, soul-satisfying enjoyment⁴⁹.
 
O'Reilly was up at daylight to offer his services in caring for Esteban
Varona, but Norine declined them.
"His fever is down a little and he has taken some nourishment," she reported. "That food you boys risked your silly lives for may come in handy, after all."
 
"I dare say he won't be able to talk to me to-day?" O'Reilly ventured.
 
"Not to-day, nor for many days, I'm afraid."
 
"If you don't mind, then, I'll hang around and listen to what he says," he told her, wistfully. "He might drop a word about Rosa."
 
"To be sure. So far he's scarcely mentioned her. I can't understand much that he says, of course, but Mrs. Ruiz tells me it's all jumbled⁵⁰ and quite unintelligible⁵¹. How is Leslie's baby this morning?"
 
"Oh, it passed a good night. It was awake and had ordered breakfast when I got up. Leslie was making a fire to scald out its bottle. He says he didn't close his eyes all night."
 
"Poor fellow! I'm going to help him," Norine declared.
 
"Please don't. L............