So Tom and Joe piled in with their new friend. In less than half an hour they had entered the little guard-room of the police station at Wood’s Hole. Pedro, still manacled, was seated in a hard wooden armchair between two constables, while Detective Musgrave paced the floor before him.
“He’s trying a crafty game,” smiled Musgrave, as the newcomers entered. “Once in a while the prisoner talks, but when he does it’s to shake his head and mutter a string in Spanish.”
“He understands English well enough,” answered Tom. “He has talked a whole lot of it to me.”
“Of course he understands English,” laughed Mr. Musgrave. “I know his type of colored man well. He’s a Jamaica negro, born and brought up with English spoken around him. Afterwards he went over to Central America and picked up Spanish.”
“No sabe,” broke in the negro, looking blankly at those who surrounded him.
“Oh, you savvy plenty well enough,” Tom retorted tartly. “And see here, Pedro, you’re a pretty cheap sort of rascal anyway. You remember how Joe and I caught you, and how I scared you cold? Do you know what it was that scared your grit away from you? Just a plain, ordinary, every-day joke of a cap pistol!”
Pedro started, his lips opening in a gasp at that information.
“Oh, of course you understand, just as well as anyone else in the room,” Halstead went on. “And here’s the young cannon that made you lie so still in the road.”
With a short laugh Tom produced the cap pistol, holding it before the astonished black man’s face. Pedro’s disgusted expression was enough to make them all laugh.
“He can’t even pretend he doesn’t understand English now,” snorted Mr. Musgrave. “Come now, my man, open your mouth and talk to us. It may help you out a bit when you come to be tried.”