He was almost a pigmy in stature, but thickset and stout of frame.
His complexion was the color of parchment, and his hair long, black and wiry, hung down over his shoulders.
His keen eyes looking furtively out from beneath heavy eyebrows were fixed keenly upon the Steam Man.
He was dressed in a curious-looking suit of some sort of queerly-woven cloth, a compromise between the garb of a Turk and a native Mexican.
In his hand he carried a long lance steel tipped.
For a full minute he stood gazing at the Steam Man.
“Golly, Marse Frank,” muttered Pomp. “Dat am de funniest-looking little man I eber seed.”
“Well, you’re right, Pomp,” agreed Frank, regarding the other with interest. “If he is a specimen of the aborigines of this country they were a funny looking lot of people.”
But the funny looking little man leaped down from his perch and now advanced toward the Steam Man, gesticulating and talking in some strange tongue.
Frank could not understand a word he said.