“I wouldna say that, though there's them as think so. But if it be anybody as is holdin' him, 'tis the Senestro an' his gang o' guards.”
Watson looked at the other's uniform, at the purple shako on his head, the jewelled weapon at his side, and the Jaradic leaf on his shoulder—insignia of a Bar of the highest rank.
“How does it come that you're a Bar, and a high one at that?”
The other grinned again. He took off his shako and ran his hand through his mop of red hair.
“'Tis aither th' luck of th' Irish, me lad, or of th' Scotch. Oi don't ken which—Oi'm haff each—but mostly 'tis th' virtoo av me bonny red hair.”
“Why?”
“Because, leastways, in th' Thomahlia, there's always a dhrop av royalty in th' red-headed. Me bonnie top-knot has made me a fortune. Ye see, 'tis th' mark av th' royal Bars themselves; no ithers have it.”
Watson said: “If you have come from Dr. Holcomb, then you must have a message from him to me.”
“Ye've said it; you an' me, an' a few Rhamdas, an' mebbe th' wee queen is goin' t' take a flight in th' June Bug. We're goin' afther th' ould doc; an' ye kin bet there'll be as pretty a scrap as ever ye looked on. An' afther thot's all over, we're goin' t' take anither kind of a flight—into good old Frisco.”
Chick instantly asked Pat if he knew where San Francisco might be.