"He'd better not try it!" fairly growled Ike. "Look here, my wealthy friend," he went on, snarling the words into the ear of the frightened and shrinking youth, "don't try any of your funny tricks now, or my partner and I will be forced to take extreme measures, as they say in the books. We'll do it, too, no matter if your Uncle Ezra did warn us to be careful, and not harm you. You've given us trouble enough, and we won't stand for any more nonsense; will we, Sam?"
"That's right. But he won't have much more chance. We're almost at the pier, and we'll soon be aboard the yacht. Then——"
"Pardon, senors!" exclaimed the lad in the carriage, and then followed a question in rapid Spanish.
"Here, drop that kind of lingo," growled Ike. "We don't understand anything but plain United States talk."
"Pardon, senors," spoke the youth again, gently, but with an accent of fear in his tones, and this time he used fairly good English. "Pardon, but you are taking me to a yacht; yes?"
"Sure—to your Uncle Ezra," answered Sam.
"I have no Uncle Ezra."
"No Uncle Ezra! Come, that's a good one!" exclaimed Ike. "But I s'pose you're joking. That's why you talked Spanish to us. No Uncle Ezra, eh? Next you'll be telling us your father isn't a millionaire."
"He is not, senors," was the simple answer, and the youth could hardly restrain the sobs in his voice. "I am the son of a poor man, by name—er—Alantrez," and the youth appeared to hesitate. "Why are you taking me away?" he went on. "If it is for ransom, it will be useless, as we are poor—my father and I."
"Poor! Ha! Ha! That's pretty juicy!" chuckled Sam. "I wish I was as poor as you and your father are, kiddo!"