The eyes of the two gentlemen, thus left vis-a-vis, met for the first time, and a glance of mutual, instinctive dislike shot from one to the other. And yet, both men were attractive in appearance, although of strongly opposing types, both handsomely dressed, both wearing the unmistakable air of the thorough gentleman, born and bred to his position. The first speaker was evidently a foreigner; his clear, olive skin, slight figure, and black hair and moustache, suggested a Spanish extraction; while his violet blue eyes, with short lashes, betrayed the strain of rich Milesian blood, coming to him from his mother's ancestry. The other man was taller, bigger, sturdier, and not so lithe of form; the coloring and expression of his proud, handsome face was essentially that of a high-bred Englishman. Mark Trecothick's father in fact, came from one of those Cornish families who preserve the family tree when the house is on fire, and let the bank-notes burn; and in transplanting his family to America, he had not forgotten to pack up every one of the traditions and observances, that had crystallized about the Trecothick stem, from even before the Norman conquest.
Slowly adjusting his traveling bag across his broad shoulders, and allowing the faintest trace of a supercilious smile to curve his golden moustache, the young, fellow stared across the plank at the Cuban, whose blue eyes contracted and darkened ominously, as he demanded:
"What did you say, sir?"
"I said I begged pardon of the ladies, for detaining them. They don't seem to need any farther championship, do they?"
"Not at present, but I also go in this boat, and if they should require assistance, I shall be prompt to offer it."
"The ladies are most fortunate in their defender; let us hope his services will not be needed."
