gently, but with an accent of fear in his tones, and this time he used fairly good English. "Pardon, but you are taking me to a yacht; yes?"
"Sure—to your Uncle Ezra," answered Sam.
"I have no Uncle Ezra."
"No Uncle Ezra! Come, that's a good one!" exclaimed Ike. "But I s'pose you're joking. That's why you talked Spanish to us. No Uncle Ezra, eh? Next you'll be telling us your father isn't a millionaire."
"He is not, senors," was the simple answer, and the youth could hardly restrain the sobs in his voice. "I am the son of a poor man, by name—er—Alantrez," and the youth appeared to hesitate. "Why are you taking me away?" he went on. "If it is for ransom, it will be useless, as we are poor—my father and I."
"Poor! Ha! Ha! That's pretty juicy!" chuckled Sam. "I wish I was as poor as you and your father are, kiddo!"
"Same here," added Ike.
"But you have no right to take me away like this," declared the youth, with more spirit. "It is infamous! It is wrong! And when the police hear of it you will suffer."
"We don't care a fig for the police of Cuba!" declared Ike. "We walked away, right under their very noses, with you, and all they did was to rush about, waving their swords and firing their revolvers in the air, like a lot of kids at a
