THE STEAM-SHOVEL MAN
to the iron railing in front of a near-by dwelling. A black-haired young man with a chocolate-drop complexion, lounging on a balcony, lazily thrummed a guitar. Strolling pedlers cried their wares with rude snatches of song. The voices of fishermen came from the beach by the sea-wall. The place was wholly foreign, unfrequented by Americans. The Canal Zone and its protecting power might have been a thousand miles away. The passers-by would be pleased to see Walter worsted in a scuffle. His affairs concerned them not in the least. It was futile to call for help. He had been rash and stupid.
"What do you want to say to me?" he demanded, trying to keep his voice under control.
"It is not hospitable to make you stand in the street," and Captain Brincker smiled grimly. "Come inside with me."
As he spoke he twisted Walter violently about and shoved him into the vestibule of the house, which was only a step from the street. Jerking himself free in blind rage, Walter struck at his captor, who dodged and slammed shut the heavy outer door behind them. It was like
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