“Oh! pshaw, these black fellows are always muttering and threatening but it ends at that,” said Jack with a contemptuous gesture.
“‘Luff round,’ shipmate,” suddenly called Tom Maxon grabbing hold of Jack’s arm and pointing through a break in the jungle that lined the roadway.
“Isn’t that a queer combination over there by that dead tree?” continued the officer directing Jack’s gaze to a cleared spot on the edge of the forest.
In the dim light could be distinguished the figure of a well-dressed man, who was not black, in earnest conversation with a bent old hag of a black woman who rested her hand familiarly and affectionately upon his arm. Dunlap started when he first glanced at them. The figure and dress of the man was strangely similar to that of Walter Burton.
“Some go-between in a dusky love affair doubtless,” said Jack shortly as he moved on.
“Well, I think I could select a better looking Cupid,” exclaimed Tom laughing at the suggestion of the old witch playing the part of love’s messenger.
“By the way, Jack, speaking of Cupid, I received a peculiar communication at Gibraltar. It was only a clipping from some society paper but this was what it said: ‘Mr. T. DeMontmorency Jones has sailed in his magnificent yacht the “Bessie” for the Mediterranean, where he will spend the winter. En passant, rumor says the engagement between Mr. Jones and one of Boston’s most popular belles has been terminated.’ This same spindle shanked popinjay of a millionaire was sailing in the wake of my inamorata and was said to have cut me out of the race after my Trafalgar. So, when I tell you, old chap, that the writing on the envelope looks suspiciously like the chirography of Miss Elizabeth Winthrop, you can guess why I can sing
‘There’s a sweetheart over the sea’
‘And she’s awaiting there for me.’”