“Yes, of course,” the young fellow hesitated, then the man stepped close and one hand was pressed against Carlos’ side. The Flying Buddies saw the move, and sprang up.
“I say, old thing, what’s the idea?” Bob demanded.
“Sure you are not off your wave length?” Jim added. Four fists were clenched hard and two pairs of eyes flashed angrily. “Keep your hand in your pocket, old timer.” They shoved in between their pal and the chap who accosted him, but just as they did so, two huge men leaped from the background and one of them caught Carlos on the chin with such a crack that he dropped to the floor, but he rolled over on his face before the fellow could put a hand into his breast pocket. In a moment fists and feet were flying in a grand free-for-all, and someone, probably the manager of the place, pranced about trying to round up the fighters into a shed or anyplace out of sight of the crowd.
“My business, my business,” he wailed, then, almost as suddenly as the scrap had started, the three boys were yanked to their feet and they found themselves in a huge kitchen.
“He stole a wallet that belongs to my friend,” the first chap accused. “Search him and you’ll find it.” A very tall man in a clean white suit stepped forward as if to carry out the request, but Jim quickly put a detaining hand on the fellow’s arm.
“I say, listen—” he urged. The man looked down at the boy and for the briefest instant his eyes rested on the green emerald ring he always wore. “That chap is lying—”
“Put them out,” he snapped to a huge attendant, who looked more like a great gorilla than a human being.
“Si.”
“I tell you—”
“Depart.” In less time than it takes to tell it, the assaulting party were kicked out of the kitchen, down a pair of slippery stairs and into a shallow hole used for slop water. They cursed and sputtered alternately, but the bouncer raised his foot again, so they scrambled away from the vicinity as fast as they could go.