"Say, let's get out of this—the air seems bad," breathed Ned at last.
As he spoke a fresh view was thrown on the screen. It showed a group of life-prisoners at work in the prison-yard. Unlike the other pictures, this one exhibited the figures at more than life-size. In their exaggerated proportions every form showed up clear as print, and the features of each hard face could be as clearly defined as if the pictured subject was a living being.
The boys had risen to leave, but a sudden exclamation from Herc brought them to a sudden halt.
Angry murmurs in Spanish rose about the boys.
"W-what's the matter?" asked Ned in an astonished voice, gazing about.
"Come on, you chump, and let's get out of here. We're blocking the views of the Cubanolas, or whatever they call themselves; but before you go, look at the two center convicts in that picture. Who do they remind you of?"
Herc's voice shook with excitement. Ned gazed a few seconds fixedly at the screen, while the angry hum of protest increased.
"Seat-a down," came voices.
"By the big horn-spoon, those two wearers of stripes are Carl Schultz and his pal, Silas, or I'm a Dutchman," sputtered Ned, as the two boys, having exhausted the patience of the audience seated behind them, beat a hasty retreat.