The Cuban did not look up. As he smoked, he seemed to have enough affairs of his own to occupy his mind, without wasting any time on a stranger.
Nick Carter took one of his own favorite perfectos from a cigar case and bit off the end with a snap of his even, white teeth. Then he felt in his pockets for a match.
He brought out a silver match box first, and, finding it empty, explored his clothing with what appeared to be rapidly increasing vexation. Not a match could he find.
He looked on the tables, but no matches were there.
“Deuce take it! I wish I had a match!” he muttered, in a carefully disguised tone. “Where’s that confounded waiter?”
The Cuban turned and looked Nick Carter over with a gaze that took him in from head to foot. Then, moved by a sudden impulse, he said, in a voice with a strong Spanish accent:
“May I give you a light?”
“Thanks!” answered Nick.
“I am sorry I have no match,” went on the Cuban. “Will you honor me by taking a light from my cigarro?”
“If you will favor me.”