It was at this moment that he saw a boat coming up to the Cherokee in a businesslike way, with a frowning, dignified man in some sort of uniform cap in the stern, while two fellows, who looked like ordinary dock wallopers, plied the oars.
The official in the stern was dark-haired, and wore a heavy black mustache. He had eyes that seemed to pierce anything at which they looked. It was not easy to say just what color they were. In some lights they seemed to be a yellowish green, like an angry cat’s.
“Hello!” he shouted, in a gruff voice, as he saw Lawton.
“Hello!” replied Lawton, equally gruff.
“This the Cherokee, from New York?”
“Yes.”
“Captain William Lawton in command?”
“That’s my name.”
The captain had had an occasional argument with the police of San Juan, as he had in many other ports, on account of doubtful cargoes. He did not care for the police on general principles, therefore.
As this man in the boat, who looked like a lieutenant in undress uniform, questioned him, he tried to think of anything he had done against the law in Porto Rico the last time he had been there.