rather the contrary.

When he ventures to protest, the man who opened the door orders silence
and enforces it with a cowardly blow from his fist.

John looks him straight in the eye and says:

"You coward! I will remember that," at which the man turns his head away
and swears under his breath.

Presently they halt in front of a door, which the leader unlocks. At a
word from him the young American is pushed inside.

John, receiving such an impetus, staggers and throws out his hands for
support, but failing to find anything of this kind, pitches over, just
as the door slams shut.

He recovers himself and sits up, a trifle bruised, but not otherwise
injured through his rough treatment.

This is a nice predicament, to be shut up in a house of Valetta, while,
perhaps, Philander Sharpe returns to the hotel with a story of his
succumbing to the wiles of a beautiful enchantress.

The steamer will sail without him, and the duse must be to pay
generally.

John begins, like a man, to wonder if he can do anything for himself;
that spirit so distinctive, so Chicago like, will not allow him to sit
down and repine.