The latter was a Spaniard, a peon or laborer. Ragged, barefooted, dirty, he had the appearance of a man half-starved.
The fellow’s tattered sombrero rested at an angle on his head. His gleaming, glittering eyes, made brighter by that nondescript illness, slow starvation, had an ugly light in them.
In whatever direction Maynard turned he saw others like this fellow—thousands of them.
Every wharf and pier, every building near the water front, every available spot of view was crowded by Spaniards who had come out to watch the departure of America’s consul general, and, watching, to jeer.
It was no use to gaze longer after the Fern, yet Hal Maynard found himself unable to stir.
“If I never see the flag again, I must see it to the last to-day,” he murmured.
“Senor does not like our climate?” again jeered the fellow at his elbow.
Hal made no answer, not even turning this time.
But his tormentor would not quit.
“Perhaps it is our people that the senor does not like? I have heard that there were some Americans who do not love the Spanish!”