The man in the pith helmet listened to Miller without any trace of emotion. When Miller had finished he laughed.
“We’ve every means of defence that an American citizen needs when he runs up against a crowd like yours,” he said. He picked up his reins and turned his horse’s head down the street. “You will find us at the Hotel Continental,” he added. “And as for running us out of town,” he shouted over his shoulder, “there’s an American man-of-war at Amapala that is going to chase you people out of it as soon as we give the word.”
When I saw that Miller and Von Ritter were arranging a duel, I felt no further interest in what the man said, until he threatened us with the warship. At that I turned toward the naval ensign to see how he received it.
He was a young man, some years older than myself, with a smooth face and fair, yellow hair and blue eyes. I found that the blue eyes were fixed upon me steadily and kindly. When he saw that I had caught him watching me he raised his hand smartly to the visor.
I do not know why, but it made the tears come to my eyes. It was so different from the salute of our own men; it was like being back again under the flag at the Point. It was the recognition of the “regular” that touched me, of a bona-fide, commissioned officer.
But I returned his salute just as stiffly as though I were a commissioned officer myself. And then a strange thing happened. The sailor-boy jerked his head toward the retreating form of my late adversary, and slowly stuck his tongue into his cheek, and winked. Before I could recover myself, he had caught up my hand and given it a sharp shake, and galloped after his friends.
Miller and I fell in at the rear of the column.
“Who were those men?” I asked.
“The Isthmian Line people, of course,” he answered, shortly. “The man in the helmet is Graham, the manager of the Copan Silver Mines. They’ve just unloaded them on Fiske. That’s why they’re so thick with him.”
“And who was the chap who insulted Laguerre?” I asked. “The one whose face I slapped?”