"I fancied from his manner," said Bill Breakstone, "that young Armijo was the President of Old Mexico and New Mexico both. I have called you Sir Knight, and My Lord Phil, but our young Mexican is both His Grace and His Royal Highness. By my halidome, we are indeed proud and far above that vile herd, the populace." "Well, he will not bother us," said Arenberg. "If you run after trouble you will find it coming to meet you." Middleton watched the Mexicans with uncommon interest until they passed out of sight. Arenberg, a shrewd and penetrating man himself, said: "You are interested in them, Mr. Middleton?" "I am," replied Middleton frankly, "and I know, too, that the errand of Zucorra to Washington has been a failure. The relations of the United States and Mexico are no better." "But that won’t keep us from going across to the Pacific, will it, Cap?" said Bill Breakstone briskly. "You don’t mind if I call you Cap, do you, Mr. Middleton? You are, in a way, our leader, because you are most fit, and the title seems to suit you." "Call me Cap if you wish," replied Middleton, "but we are all on equal terms. Now, as we have seen the Mexicans, and, as there is nothing more here to attract us, we might go on up the levee." "Prithee, we will suit the deed to the word," said Bill Breakstone, "but do not run into that drunken Indian there, Phil. I would not have thy garments soiled by contact with this degraded specimen of a race once proud and noble." Phil turned a little to one side to avoid the Indian of whom Breakstone spoke. The levee was littered with freight, and the red man huddled against a hogshead of tobacco from far Kentucky. His dress was partly savage and partly civilized, and he was sodden with dirt and drink. But, as Breakstone spoke, he raised his head and flashed him a look from fiery, glowing eyes. Then his head sank back, but the single glance made Breakstone shiver. "I felt as if I had received a bullet," he said. "Now what did the noble savage mean by giving me such a look? He must have understood what I said. Ah, well, it mattereth not. He looked like a Comanche. It has been wisely said, let the cobbler stick to his last, and there is no last in New Orleans for Mr. Cobbler Comanche." "You didn’t suppose he understood you," said Arenberg, "and no harm iss done where none iss meant." Phil looked back at the Comanche, but there was nothing heroic about him. He was huddled lower than ever against the tobacco hogshead. Certainly there was no suggestion of the dauntless warrior, of the wild horseman. Phil felt a curious little thrill of disappointment. He looked in the same place the next day for the Comanche, but he did not see him, and then, in the excitement of great preparations, he forgot the Indian. The New Mexico expedition was about to become a fact, and the little band of four were promptly received as members. On all such perilous trips strong and well-armed men were welcome.