A laughing chorus greeted the announcement. “He wanted to go home!” More laughter greeted this stupid sally. “And now,” continued the announcer, “he is crying to find himself left here with us!” “There is yet time for him to swim after the vessel!” jibed another Spaniard. “Or let him cruise home on the Maine!” At this there was a cyclonic burst of laughter. Instantly the other Spaniards began to cast about for sayings which the crowd would regard as being witty. Hal Maynard’s eyes flashed. A fight would be helpless--hopeless, leaving him only the fate of death at the hands of this jibing, vicious mob. Yet no sooner was the word “Maine” uttered than he turned once more to where the wreck of the Maine lay and lifted his hat with a motion of reverence. It was grit--clear grit! That much even the Spaniards could appreciate. It was a defiance, too, and in a moment angry murmurs went up. “Let us see if a Yankee pig can swim!” “And if he steers toward that battered iron scow, we can shoot him from the wharf.” “As we will shoot all Yankees who dare to come here after this!” shouted another. Hal faced them, head erect and shoulders thrown back. He fully expected to be thrown into the muddy water, but he did not propose to flinch. For a moment the crowd hesitated, ready to follow any caprice, but waiting for a leader. After waiting a moment for the attack, Hal felt a sudden thrill of misgiving. His hand had touched, accidentally, on something under his coat. That recalled him to his duty, to the reason for his being in Havana, to the cause of his being left behind. Hidden away in his clothing was a bag. It contained two thousand dollars, the property of another, confided to his care. “This mob is made up of worthless fellows,” muttered the boy. “They don’t know any better than to do as they are doing. They are so ignorant that not one in a dozen of them would know his own name in print. They shall not make me forget my duty. Since there is no American ship here, I will try to find an English one.” Then, ignoring the crowd that surged about him, he turned again to scan the line of wharves. Less than a quarter of a mile away lay a brig from whose masthead floated the Union Jack of Great Britain. “I shall be safe there,” murmured Hal. “I can leave Havana on that craft. It may even be that the brig is bound for an American port.” His mind made up, he turned to leave the wharf, meaning to walk along the river front until he came to the brig’s wharf. But his original tormentor put himself fairly in the boy’s path. “Where is the Yankee pig going to root?” he demanded. Other murmurs went up. “Do not let him leave us!” “Not until he has cried ‘viva Espana!’” “Gentlemen,” said Hal, trying to speak calmly, “I find that I am not on the right wharf. Will you allow me to pass?” “Certainly, senor!” “Way for the gentleman!” “Let the Yankee pig find his wallow!”