“Well, my fine fellow, pray what may your name be?” I demanded in English, as he was led up and halted before me.
“Too mosh me no speakee Anglish!” he promptly replied, shrugging his shoulders until they touched the great gold rings that adorned the lobes of his ears, and spreading out his hands, palms upward, toward me.
“What do you speak, then?” I demanded, still in English, for somehow I did not for a moment believe the rascal’s statement.
“Me Español,” he answered, with another shrug and flourish of his hands.
“Good, then!” remarked I, in Spanish; “I will endeavour to converse with you in your own tongue. What is your name?”
“I am called José Garcia, señor,” he answered.
“And you were born—?” I continued interrogatively.
“In the city of Havana, thirty-two years ago, señor,” was the reply.
“Then if you are a Spaniard—and consequently an enemy of Great Britain—what were you doing in Kingston?” I demanded.
“Ah no, señor,” he exclaimed protestingly; “I am no enemy of Great Britain, although born a Spaniard. I have lived in Jamaica for the last fifteen years, earning my living as a fisherman.”