He was attired in a dark blue uniform. A revolver and sword hung at his side. He was short but stout, and a black mustache curled fiercely upward.
He was just what Shirley took him to be, an officer of the Costa Rican army.
He advanced into the mass of struggling children and pushed the combatants aside without ceremony. As they looked up and perceived him, the fighters turned and fled.
The sight was indeed comical and Shirley and all the others laughed long and loud.
One little boy, before taking to his heels, stooped quickly and picked up the quarter, which had rolled a short distance away. But even as he started to run, the native officer reached out a hand and caught him by the shoulder.
In vain did the boy struggle to free himself, biting and kicking. He was no match for the man, and at last he dropped the piece of silver. The officer then released him and looked around.
While the Americans still watched him he stooped, picked up the quarter, turned it over in his hand once or twice, spun it in the air, caught it as it came down and thrust it in his pocket. Then, without a glance to right or left, he turned and stalked away.
“There!” exclaimed the ship’s officer, “you can see what has happened to your quarter. It’s what happens to most of those thrown to the children by tourists.”
“It’s an outrage!” declared Shirley. “I wouldn’t have given him anything. Isn’t there something we can do about it?”
“Not a thing,” was the reply. “It is legitimate graft. But watch, now, you’ll see what the little folks do.”