Then, ignoring the crowd that surged about him, he turned again to scan the line of wharves.
Less than a quarter of a mile away lay a brig from whose masthead floated the Union Jack of Great Britain.
“I shall be safe there,” murmured Hal. “I can leave Havana on that craft. It may even be that the brig is bound for an American port.”
His mind made up, he turned to leave the wharf, meaning to walk along the river front until he came to the brig’s wharf.
But his original tormentor put himself fairly in the boy’s path.
“Where is the Yankee pig going to root?” he demanded.
Other murmurs went up.
“Do not let him leave us!”
“Not until he has cried ‘viva Espana!’”
“Gentlemen,” said Hal, trying to speak calmly, “I find that I am not on the right wharf. Will you allow me to pass?”