"Eh?" says I gaspy.
"Gotta match?" says he.
"I—I guess so," says I.
I reached as far as I could when I hands him the box, too. He's a whale of a man, tall and bulky. And his whiskers are the bristly kind—straw-colored, I should say. He's wearin' a double-breasted blue coat and a sort of yachtin' cap. Uh-huh! Plummer must have been right. If this gink wasn't a Hun naval officer, then what was he? The ayes had it.
He produces a pipe and starts to light up. One match broke, the second had no strikin' head on it, the third just fizzed.
"Gr-r-r-r!" says he.
Then he starts for the crossin', me trailin' along. I saw he had his eye on Danny's sentry-box, meanin' to get in the lee of it. Even then I didn't have any bright little idea.
"Waitin' for the trolley?" I throws out.
"Oh, no offense," says I hasty. "Maybe there are others."