Pucker-eye took out a cigarette case, selected a cigarette, and presented the case to Webster. His bad manners in selecting his own cigarette first was deliberate, as Webster knew. It was the Latin-American's method of showing his contempt.
“We shall meet again, Meester Webstaire,” he said. “May I offer the senor a cigarette for the—what you Americans call—the keepsake? No?” He smiled brightly and closed his puckered eye in a knowing wink.
Webster took his tickets from the purser, folded them, placed them in his pocket and for a few seconds regarded Pucker-eye contemptuously.
“When we meet again, you scum,” he retorted quietly, “you shall have no difficulty in remembering me. You may keep your cigarette.”
His long, powerful right arm shot out; like a forceps his thumb and forefinger closed over Pucker-eve's rather flat nose; he squeezed, and with a shrill scream of agony Pucker-eye went to his knees.
Still holding the wretch by his proboscis, Webster turned quickly in order that his face might be toward Pop-eye.
“Pop-eye,” he said, “if you take a hand in this, I'll twist your nose, too, and afterward I'll throw you in the river.”
He turned to Pucker-eye.
“Up, thou curious little one,” he said in Spanish, and jerked the unhappy rascal to his feet. The latter clawed ineffectually at the terrible arm which held him, until, presently discovering that the harder he struggled the harder Webster pinched his nose, he ceased his struggles and hung limply, moaning with pain and rage in the grip of the American.
“Good!” Webster announced, slacking his grip a little. With his left hand he deftly extracted a hair from each flank of the screaming little scoundrel's scant moustache, and held them before the latter's tear-filled eyes.