The twinkling lights of La Guarda were now near at hand. They were not halted but rattled into the sprawling little town and on to a large, square, low building, the entrance to which was a wide and dimly lighted archway.
"Hi tunket!" breathed Marty. "It looks like a police station. D'you s'pose we're going to be pinched, Janice?"
But he grinned as he asked the question and got down nonchalantly enough, to help his cousin alight.
"Not much like the calaboose at Middletown," he observed.
"You horrid boy!" Janice said. "Are you trying to scare me?"
"Couldn't do it," declared Marty with admiration. "You're a reg'lar feller, Janice."
"Thank you, dear. I know you mean to compliment me. Now, what is Manuel doing?"
The teamster had called some question into the empty archway of the building, repeating it several times. There now appeared a little, shrewd-looking Spaniard without a spear of hair on either head or face, and wearing a flapping gown over what was plainly his pajamas.
Manuel and this apparition gabbled in their own tongue for several minutes; then the teamster gestured toward the bald man, saying to Marty:
"Señor Don Abreguardo. He will tak' you in—alla right. Mi dinero, señor."