“What do you mean by trying to read my letter?” the foreigner cried in a voice full of wrath.
The blood mounted to Phil’s forehead as he returned unflinchingly the stranger’s wild look. He was about to answer an apology when the foreigner’s cutting voice stayed him.
“Just like you officious Americans,” the stranger exclaimed, surveying the neat blue uniform of the American midshipman; “always meddling in some one else’s affairs.”
“What’s the trouble, Phil?” Sydney asked in alarm, hastening to his friend’s side, upon seeing the look on Phil’s face and the menacing attitude of the other.
By an effort Phil controlled himself. His first thought was then and there to settle accounts with this infuriated man; but wiser counsel prevailed.
“I did not read your letter,” he retorted in a dignified voice. “I wished only to see if it was of any consequence in order to restore it to its owner.” Then realizing that his conciliating answer had not changed the attitude of the stranger, he added in a voice of self-contained anger:
“If you got what you deserved, it would be a sound thrashing for your slanderous tongue.”
The foreigner, hearing the lad’s just rebuke, and seeing by his muscular frame that he was capable of carrying his implied threat into execution, shrugged his shoulders eloquently, pocketed his papers and walked sullenly toward the door of the bank.
Phil stood his ground, his eyes defiantly following the stranger until the swinging doors closed behind him.
Sydney was told of the cause of the unexpected dispute and was eager to follow the foreigner and demand an apology, but Phil only laughed.