The sight of a stranger had its wonted lure for the Persian.
The lad's impotently roving glance fell upon Simon Cameron.
And into his sullen face leaped stark terror.

At sight of it, Gavin Brice hit on a new idea for wringing speech from the captive.
He knew that the grossly ignorant wreckers and fisherfolk of the keys had never set eyes on such an object as this, nor had so much as heard of Persian cats' existence.

The few cats they had seen were of course of the alley-variety, lean and of short and mangy coat.

Simon Cameron's halo of wide-fluffing silver-gray fur gave him the appearance of being double his real size.

His plumed cheeks and tasseled ears and dished profile and, above all, the weirdly staring green eyes--all combined to present a truly frightful appearance to a youth so unsophisticated as this and to any one as superstitious and as fearful of all unknown things as were the conchs in general.
"Standish," said Brice, "just take my place for a minute as holder of this conch's very ragged shirt collar.