“He got mad, I suppose?”

“Not at all.  He sent on the letter to its destination, with a note of his own, presenting his compliments, and regrets that he could not allow himself to be taken prisoner, but saying that he had much pleasure in inclosing the button, for transmission to England.”

“A regular old brick, and no mistake!  We’ll drink his health.”

It was drunk with full honours, after which Hyde, finding the party inclined to be rather too noisy, got up to go.

“Here!” he cried out, “some of you.  What have I got to pay?  Hurry up, my dusky duchess; I want to be off.  Come, don’t keep me waiting all day,” and he struck the table impatiently with his riding-whip.

Mother Charcoal’s assistant, “the imp,” ran up.

“How much?”

“One dollar:  four shilling,” said the lad, in broken English.

“There’s your money!” cried Hyde, throwing it down, “and a ‘bob’ for yourself.  Stop!” he added.  “Who and what are you?  I have seen you before.”

The lad, a mere boy, frail-looking and slightly built, but with a handsome, rather effeminate-looking face, tried to slink away.

“What’s your name?” went on Hyde.

“Pongo,” replied the boy.

“That’s no real name.  Smacks of the West Coast of Africa.  Who gave it you?”

“Mother Charcoal.”

“What’s your country?  What language do you talk?”

“English.”

“Monstrous little of that, my boy.  What’s your native lingo, I mean?  Greek, Turkish, Italian, Coptic—­what?”

“Spanish,” the boy confessed, in a low voice.

Hyde looked at him very intently for a few seconds; then, without further remark, walked out with his French friend.

But he did not do more than say good-bye outside the shanty; and, leaving his horse still hitched up near the door, he presently re-entered the canteen.

The place had emptied considerably, and he was able to take his seat again in a corner without attracting much attention.  For half-an-half or more he watched this boy, who seemed to interest him so much.

“There’s not a doubt of it.  I must know what it means,” and he beckoned the “imp” towards him.

“How did you get to the Crimea?” he asked, abruptly, speaking in excellent Spanish, when the lad, shyly and most reluctantly, came up to him.  “What brings you here?  I must and will know.  It is very wrong.  This is no place for you.”

“I came to save him; he is in pressing danger,” said the boy, whose large eyes were now filled with tears.

“Does he know you are in the Crimea?”

“I have been unable to find him.  I lost all my money; it was stolen from me directly I landed, and, if I had not found this place with the black woman, I should have starved.”

“Poor child!  Alone and unprotected in this terrible place.  It was sheer madness your coming.”

“But I could tell him in no other way.”