His eager eyes flew back to the entrance. Allan hissed
at him:
"Yonder goes! Quick, or you will be losing she."
"Where?"
"There! The young female in w'ite. It is h'indeed the Senorita
Torres."
"THAT!" Anthony stared at the girl amazedly as she cast him a
second and more coquettish flash of her black eyes. "Why, damn it,
that--why, she's a--NIGGER!"
"No, no!" shrilly expostulated the Jamaican. "It is she. H'alas!
They have turned the corner."
Kirk wheeled upon his detective in overwhelming disgust. "You
idiot!" he breathed. "That girl is a 'dinge.' So, SHE'S the one
I've been--Oh, it's unspeakable! Let's get away from here."
"You h'informed me in particular that she is dark," protested
Allan.
"Come on!" Kirk dragged his companion away as fast as he could.
His thoughts were too deep for tears. As soon as his emotion
permitted coherent speech, he launched into a tirade so eloquent
and picturesque that Allan was reduced to a state of wondering
awe. Pausing at length in his harangue, he turned smouldering eyes
upon the black boy.
"I ought to punch you right in the nose," he said, with mournful
calmness. "Let me feel your head." Allan obediently doffed his
cap, and Kirk rapped the woolly cranium with his knuckle.
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