Roused at the mere suggestion. Kirk staggered to the door and shouted lustily. When no one answered, he shook the iron grating, whereupon a guard leisurely approached, and, after listening stolidly to his request, went back to his post at the other end of the hall. This time the American sent forth such an uproar that a man evidently corresponding in authority to a sergeant appeared with the command to be quiet.
“Let me out of here!” loudly demanded the prisoner. “I want the chief, or the alcalde, or somebody in charge. I want to know what I’m booked for, I want to telephone—telephone, don’t you understand?—and arrange bail. Quick, now!”
But the officer merely frowned at him, obviously threatening a resort to force if this outburst did not cease at once.
“I tell you I want to get out,” insisted Kirk. “I want to know what I’m charged with and have my friends get bail.”
The man nodded his understanding and went away, but an hour passed and he did not return. Then another hour followed, and Anthony, who had now begun to feel the effect of his drubbing more keenly, renewed his clamor, with the result that a half-dozen policemen appeared, causing Allan to retreat to a corner and mumble prayers. From their demeanor it looked as though they were really bent upon mischief, but Kirk soon saw that an official had come in answer to his call. He felt less reassured when he perceived that the person in uniform who now stepped forward was the same upon whom he had turned the hose earlier in the evening.
This was a black-haired, black-eyed young fellow of, perhaps, thirty. While his skin was swarthy, even in this poor light it could be seen that he was of the real Castilian type and of a much better class than the others. He was slender and straight, his mouth small and decorated by a carefully pencilled little mustache, which was groomed to a needle sharpness. His hands and feet were as dainty as those of a woman. He was undeniably striking in appearance, and might have passed for handsome had it not been for the scowl that distorted his features.
“Eh! ’ere you are,” he began, angrily.
“Yes; I want to get out, too. What does this treatment mean?”
The new-comer stepped toward the other occupant of the cell, at which Allan broke out in terror: “Don’t you touch me. I’m a British object.”
But it was evidently not the man’s intention to offer any further indignity to his prisoners at that time. After scanning the Jamaican carefully, he issued an order to one of his men, who left the room.
“And I’m an American,” Anthony declared. “You’ll have to answer for this.”
“Per’aps you don’ know who I am. I am Ramon Alfarez, Comandante of Police, an’ you dare’ to t’row the water of the ’ose-wagon upon my person. Your gover’ment will settle for those insolt.” His white teeth showed in a furious snarl.
“I don’t give a damn who you are. I’ll get bail or do whatever your law requires, but I want to get out and I want to get out now.”