"Really," he remarked, "this is as bad as Zola's Assommoir. I can't congratulate you on your taste."
"Wait a while," responded Moreland. "Landlord, a bottle of wine, and the best dinner you can get ready."
"Si, signor," replied the proprietor, who was a swarthy, thick-set, beetle-browed Spaniard.
The wine was produced, and seemed to Jack to have a peculiar flavor.
Being thirsty, he drank heartily of it, while Moreland contented himself with sipping it.
"You don't drink?" observed Harkaway.
"Excuse me, I rarely do before eating; it takes away my appetite."
A dizziness began to attack Jack, and a soft, sensuous, dreamy feeling stole over him.
What could it mean?
Had he been brought into the place by his kind friend, the captain, to be drugged and betrayed into some carefully set trap?