The question was snapped out at Tom and Ruth as they stood near the shack. A man had come to an abrupt halt as he emerged from the bushes and faced them; something of fear, Tom thought, mingled with anger showing on his face. It was this man whom they had heard approaching, a man clad in ordinary garments, yet with an indefinable foreign air about him—an air that was accentuated by his words and inflection. He was dark of skin, swarthy, and when he smiled, which he did a moment after his rather harsh words of greeting, his very white teeth showed beneath a small black moustache. A Spaniard Tom put him down for, or a Mexican. The latter guess proved correct, as the lad learned afterward.
“You come here to—to—pardon, senor, I am forgetting my manners,” went on the fellow with a bow, and a sharp glance at Ruth. “You are here perhaps to look at cottages—you and your charming bride.”
Ruth drew in her breath sharply, and a rosy glow suffused her face. She did not look at Tom, who chuckled audibly.
“I—I’ll never speak to you if you do that again,” said the girl, in a low voice.
“Do what?” asked Tom, innocently enough.
“Laugh at—at what he said,” and she still blushed, and refused to look up.
“Pardon, senor,” went on the man. “No offense, but——”
“That’s all right,” said Tom easily, master of himself now, but wondering much who the man might be. “We were just looking around. Some friends of ours have a cottage here—the Tylers——”
“Oh, yes. Then you are very welcome. In fact you would be welcome anyhow, as this island is more or less of the public—what you say, I have not the very good English?” and he looked questioningly at them.