Three blocks crowded with buildings now stood between the little house and the sea.
“Your father was Spanish?” asked Bob, his thoughts already fired with the passed away romance of those early days.
“A tradah among the Creek Indians,” answered Mrs. Mendez.
“Are there any relics of those times in Pensacola now?” went on Bob eagerly.
Mrs. Mendez smiled. “The big house you just passed on the corner is fifty years older than I am. Within it, are the beams the Indians helped to raise.”
“What was it?—A fort?” asked Bob.
Again the old lady smiled. “If my son, Tom’s father, were alive, he could tell you its story—I am too old. But it was where the Indians came to sell furs. Mr. Mendez was a clerk there.”
At this moment, the two boys and a middle-aged woman entered the room.
“This is Bob, mothah,” exclaimed Tom Allen, and Mrs. Allen gave young Balfour the hand grasp of southern hospitality.