"That" was, a rather undersized little man, of perhaps thirty. Dark of
hair, and sparkling of eye, the stranger's rather pallid face was partly
covered, in front, by a short goatee, of the French "imperial" sort,
and a moustache whose points were waxed out in fierce military
fashion.

It was the stranger's apparel that had attracted Eph's notice
particularly. The stranger was arrayed almost exquisite fashion; his
clothes were of finest texture and latest Parisian type. His little,
pointed shoes were almost as dainty as a girl's. Though the day was
warm the stranger was gloved, and handled a cane in the head of which a
handsome amethyst shone.

"I wonder how that got through the custom house?" was Eph Somers's next
undertoned question.

"Ah, good morning, gentlemen," greeted the stranger, coming toward them,
all smiles and bows. "Av I have not med ze mistake, zen I am address ze
torpedo boys."

"Right-o," drawled Eph. "Regular human torpedoes, as touchy as
gun-cotton. Why, I am due to explode this moment!"

Though the stranger looked puzzled at first, his face rapidly broke into
a cordial smile.

"Oh, ah! I understand. You mek what is call ze American joke, eh? You
have little fun wiz me."