“I hope not,” responded Ned. “I wouldn’t pick him out for a constant companion.” On their way through the water-front portion of the town the three passed a small shop in which post-cards were displayed for sale. “Let’s go in and get some,” suggested Ned. “All right,” laughed Herc, “I see your money’s burning a hole in your pocket.” “Well, it’s only the interest on what we’ve got in the navy bank at four per cent.,” Ned reminded him. They all bought several post-cards, and were leaving the store when Herc’s eye was attracted by something. It was a picture post-card, adorned by a colored view of the Villa Espenza, the place they had just left. “Might as well take that, too,” said Herc, taking it from the rack. “Zan-go!” he cried suddenly, “look here--no, here down in this corner--what does that printing say?” “‘The Villa Espenza, Bernardo Guzman, Proprietor,’” read Ned. “Wow!” “And he overheard that whole talk of ours, I’ll bet a lemon!” cried Herc. “Right you are,” responded Stanley gloomily. “And his name’s Guzman--no wonder he was interested.” To avoid attracting attention from the owner of the store, who was gazing curiously at them, the boys bought the post-card and left the place. “See the way that fellow in there was glaring at us?” grinned Herc. “They sure do love Americans down here--not!” “That’s a good way to tell a revolutionary sympathizer,” said Stanley. “The government party are all friendly to Americans. They realize the good they have done the country and the capital they have brought into it. The revolutionists, on the other hand, all want to see all foreigners out of here, and be able to run the place for themselves--and their pockets.” “I don’t see why our government should interfere,” said Herc, as they made their way down the street, pursued sometimes by approving and sometimes by unfriendly glances. “She’s not interfering,” rejoined Stanley; “that’s just it. If she could she’d mighty soon show these revolutionists where they stand. Not that the United States doesn’t believe in every one having a square deal, mind you, but at Washington they think these things should be decided by the ballot box, and not by fighting and squabbling.” By this time they had drawn near the wharf, had turned and were headed for it, when a sudden chorus of shouts and yells rapidly drawing nearer attracted their attention. At the same instant round the corner of one of the dark, narrow streets leading to the water front burst a strange group--or rather, from their exciting actions and cries, mob would be a better term. “Hullo!” shouted Ned suddenly, “there’s some of our fellows among them.” “By the great turret gun, so there are!” echoed Stanley, starting forward.