He felt less reassured when he perceived that the person
in uniform who now stepped forward was the same upon whom he had
turned the hose earlier in the evening.
This was a black-haired, black-eyed young fellow of, perhaps,
thirty. While his skin was swarthy, even in this poor light it
could be seen that he was of the real Castilian type and of a much
better class than the others. He was slender and straight, his
mouth small and decorated by a carefully pencilled little
mustache, which was groomed to a needle sharpness. His hands and
feet were as dainty as those of a woman. He was undeniably
striking in appearance, and might have passed for handsome had it
not been for the scowl that distorted his features.
"Eh! 'ere you are," he began, angrily.
"Yes; I want to get out, too. What does this treatment mean?"
The new-comer stepped toward the other occupant of the cell, at
which Allan broke out in terror: "Don't you touch me. I'm a
British object."
But it was evidently not the man's intention to offer any further
indignity to his prisoners at that time. After scanning the
Jamaican carefully, he issued an order to one of his men, who left
the room.
"And I'm an American," Anthony declared. "You'll have to answer
for this.
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