“And yoo sure,” asked the girl, with rekindled earnestness in her large black eyes, “dat all Rimini safe—Francisco an’ Mar—”
“Ah, all safe,—Mariano inclusive,” said the sailor, with an intelligent nod. “I sees how the land lies. Depend on it that young feller ain’t likely to part with his skin without a pretty stiffish spurt for it.”
Although much of Flaggan’s language was incomprehensible to the pretty Sicilian, it was sufficiently clear to her sharp intelligence to enable her to follow the drift of his meaning; she blushed, as she turned away her head with a queen-like grace peculiarly Italian, and said—
“When yoo go hoff—to seek?”
“This werry minit,” answered the sailor. “In fact I was just castin’ about in my mind w’en you came up how I could best throw Ally Babby off the scent as to w’ere I was goin’.”
“Me manages dat for yoo,” said Angela, with a bright significant smile, as she turned and called to the interpreter.
Ali, who was rather fond of female society, at once advanced with a bow of gracious orientality.
“Com here, Ali; yoo most ’xplain de flowers me bring hom yiserday.”
The polite Moor at once followed the pretty Italian, leaving Ted Flaggan with her sister.
“You’ll excuse me, ma’am, if I bids you raither an abrup’ good marnin’. It’s business I have on me hands that won’t kape nohow.”