“Looted the Bazaar Americana,” replied Perkins.
“That’s Urgante,” growled Cluff; “that devil with the flag.”
“But he seems to be eulogizing it,” cried the girl.
The orator had set down his bright burden, wedging it in the iron guard railing of a tree, and was now apostrophizing it with extravagant bows and honeyed accents in which there was an undertone of hiss. For confirmation, Miss Polly turned to the others. The first face her eyes fell on was that of the ball-player. Every muscle in it was drawn, and from the tightened lips streamed such whispered curses as the girl never before had heard. Next him stood the hermit, solid and still, but with a queer spreading pallor under his tan. In front of them Sherwen was crouched, scowlingly alert. The expression of Mr. Brewster and Carroll, neither of whom understood Spanish, betokened watchful puzzlement.
Enlightenment burst upon them the next minute. From the motley crowd below rose a snarl of laughter and savage jeering, the object of which was unmistakable.
“By G—d!” cried Mr. Brewster, straightening up and grasping the railing. “They’re insulting the flag!”
“I’ve left my pistol!” muttered Carroll, white-lipped. “I’ve left my pistol!”
Polly Brewster’s hand flew to her belt.
She drew out the automatic and held it toward the Southerner. But it was not Carroll’s hand that met hers; it was the Unspeakable Perk’s.
“No,” said he, and he flung the weapon back of him into the patio.