“Say, I’m as thirsty as a limekiln!” exclaimed Herc, as his eyes fell on the sign. “What do you fellows say to sampling some of that?”
He pointed to the sign.
All agreed it would be a good idea, and soon they were seated in a small booth awaiting the arrival of a waiter.
“Queer they should have soda down here,” commented Herc, gazing approvingly about at the snug nest of greenery, through which a pleasant breeze from the blue bay beneath swept refreshingly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” rejoined Stanley, “these dagoes have taken to soda amazingly since they first tasted it on American steamers. Besides, you know, the mail boats bring tourists down here in the winter.”
At this point the conversation of the trio was interrupted by the arrival of a stout, black-mustached man in a white duck suit, wearing a big panama hat and carrying a palm-leaf fan.
“How do you do?” he exclaimed in excellent English, though he was palpably a native.
The boys responded in kind, and then, to their amazement, the aristocratic newcomer inquired what it would be their pleasure to drink.