Men stepped aside to look at the two young officers, lifting their caps; city people raised a cheer more than once as they recognized the uniform of a staff officer; while often enough a handkerchief fluttered from some window as Tom and Jack walked their horses through the city. There was abundant evidence, in fact, of the popularity of the British; and had our heroes cared for entertainment, and possessed the time, they could have spent a year passing from one hospitable house to another. Everyone was glad to see them. Everyone!--no. There was one exception, though he passed unnoticed amongst the crowds. A face peeped out from the window of a hovel that was squeezed in at the corner of a square which Tom and Jack were just entering, while the limbs of the owner of that face writhed and twisted incessantly. A thin, weak hand played with the corner of a weak mouth, while a scowl of hatred lined a narrow forehead. The young man--for he was but little older than Tom--stretched out a little farther, so as to obtain a better view of the officers riding before him, and then ducked back out of sight. "Tom Clifford!" he hissed. "He in Oporto! Safe from the sea, and an officer! Ah!" The scowl deepened, for the moment was a bitter one for José. Yes, it was José de Esteros, whom we saw last in London, the scheming vindictive nephew to whom John Clifford had given a home for many a year, and who had rewarded his uncle after such a manner. It was the sneaking youth who had procured Tom's impressment, and who had schemed and schemed so that, one of these days, he might become the head of the firm of Septimus John Clifford & Son. It was, in fact, the ruffian who hoped to break through that old tradition of the firm owned by his uncle, and deprive it of the son who, following unbroken custom, should succeed. "Tom Clifford!" he gasped again. "An officer too! How? And in Oporto! Why?"