Curious spectators, beggars, small boys, boatmen, and all that go to make up the water-front population of a city like Lisbon, thronged the street outside the gate and made complimentary and other remarks as the boys passed from the dock.
In the background, partially concealed behind a group of spectators, was a lean, brown-skinned boy with shifty, furtive eyes and a shock of black hair.
He was clad only in a light shirt and trousers, both of which showed signs of recent contact with water. As the naval cadets trouped past he watched them eagerly until three walking together and laughing merrily came into view.
Then his little eyes contracted, his face darkened with rage, and the nails of his clinched fists bit deep into the flesh.
He drew back, but not before he was observed by two cadets who had loitered behind their companions. They walked on a few paces, then dropped back and approached the barefoot boy.
“I say, aren’t you the chap who was diving for pennies alongside the ship this morning?” asked one, with assumed carelessness.
The boy glared at them defiantly, and made a reply in Portuguese.
“Drop that lingo,” sharply exclaimed the cadet. “I know you can speak English because I heard you. Your name is Pedro, and you were defeated in a dive by one of our fellows.”