|THEY were seated at the tiny tea table when the sound of feet crunching
the little shell-paved path through the _patio_ caused Webster and
Dolores to turn their heads simultaneously. Coming toward them was
an individual who wore upon a head of flaming red a disreputable,
conical-crowned straw sombrero; a soiled cotton camisa with the tails
flowing free of his equally soiled khaki trousers, and sandals of the
kind known as _alpargates_--made from the tough fibre of a plant of the
cactus family and worn only by the very lowliest peons--completed his
singular attire.
“Hello!” Webster murmured whimsically. “Look who's here!”
“One of Billy's friends and another reason why he has no social
standing,” Dolores whispered. “I believe he's going to speak to us.”
Such evidently appeared to be the man's intention. He came to the edge
of the veranda, swept his ruin of a hat from his red head and bowed with
Castilian expansiveness.
“Yer pardon, Miss, for appearin' before you.” She smiled her forgiveness
to what Webster how perceived to be an alcoholic wreck. He was about to
dismiss the fellow with scant ceremony, when Dolores, with that rich
sense of almost masculine humour--a humour that was distinctly
American--said sweetly:
“Mr. Webster, shake hands with Don Juan Cafetéro, _bon vivant_ and man
about town. Don Juan, permit me to present Mr. Webster, from somewhere
in the United States. Mr. Webster is a mining partner of our mutual
friend Mr. William Geary.”
A long, sad descent into the Pit had, however, imbued Don Juan with a
sense of his degradation; he was in the presence of a superior, and he
acknowledged the introduction with a respectful inclination of his head.
“'Tis you I've called to see, Misther Webster, sor,” he explained.
“Very well, old-timer. In what way can I be of service to you?”
“'Tis the other way around, sor, if ye plaze, an' for that same there's
no charrge, seein' ye're the partner, av that fine, kind gintleman,
Misther Geary Sure 'tis he that's the free-handed lad wit' his money
whin he has it, God bless him, an' may the heavens be his bed, although
be the same token I can see wit' the half av an eye that 'tis yerself
thinks nothin' av a dollar, or five, for that matther. However, sor,
that's neither here nor there. Did ye, whilst in New Orleans, have
d'alings wit' a short, shtout spiggoty wit' a puckered scar undher his
right eye?”
John Stuart Webster suddenly sat up straight and gazed upon the lost son
of Erin with grave interest. “Yes,” he replied, “I seem to recall such a
man.”
“Only another proof of my ability as a palmist,” Dolores struck in.
“Remember, Mr. Webster, I warned you to beware of a dark man that had
crossed your path.”
“An' well he may, Miss--well he may,” Don Juan agreed gloomily. “'Tis
none av me business, sor, but would ye mind tellin' me just what ye did
to that spiggoty?”
“Why, to begin, last Sunday morning I interrupted this pucker-eyed
fellow and a pop-eyed friend of his while engaged in an attempt to
assassinate a white, inoffensive stranger. The following day, at the
gangplank of the steamer, we met again; he poked his nose into my
business, so I squeezed his nose until he cried; right before everybody
I did it, Don Juan, and to add insult to injury, I plucked a few hairs
from his rat's moustache--one hair per each pluck.”
“I'd a notion ye did somethin' to him, sor. Now, thin, listen to me: I'm
not much to look at, but I'm white. I'm an attashay, as ye might say, av
Ignatz Leber--him that do have the import an' export house at the ind av
the Calle San Rosario, forninst the bay. Also he do have charrge av
the cable office, an' whin I'm sober enough, I deliver cable-grains for
Leber. Now, thin, ye'll recall we had a bit av a shower to-day at noon?”
Dolores and Webster nodded. Don Juan, after glancing cautiously around,
lowered his voice and continued: “I was deliverin' a cablegram for
Leber, an' me course took me past the palace gate--which, be the same
token, has sinthry-boxes both inside an' out, wan on each side av the
gate. The sinthry was not visible as I came along, an' what wit' the
shower comin' as suddint as that, an' me wit' a wardrobe that's not so
extinsive I can afford to get it wet, I shtepped into wan av the outside
sintry-boxes till the rain should be over, an' what wit' a dhrink av
_aguardiente_ I'd took to brace me for the thrip, an' the mimory av auld
times, I fell asleep.
“Dear knows how long I sat there napping; all I know is that I was
awakened by the sound av three men talkin' at the gate, an' divil a
worrd did they say but what I heard. They were talkin' in Spanish, but
I undhershtood thim well enough. 'He's at the Hotel Mateo,' says wan
voice, 'an' his name is Webster--Jawn Webster. He's an American, an' a
big, savage-lookin' lad at that, so take, me advice an' be careful. Do
ye two keep an eye on him wherever he goes, an' if he should shtep out
at night an' wandher t'rough a dark shtreet, do ye two see to it that
he's put where he'll not interfere again in Don Felipe's affairs. No
damn' gringo'--beggin' yer pardon, Miss--'can intherfere in the wurrk
av the Intilligince Bureau at a time like this, in addition to insultin'
our honoured chief, wit'out the necessity av bein' measured for a
coffin.' '_Si, mi general.'_ says another lad, an 'To be sure, _mi
general_,' says a thirrd; an' wit' that the gineral, bad cess to him,
wint back to the palace an' the other two walked on up the _calle_ an'
away from the sinthry-box.”
“Did you come out and follow them?” Webster demanded briskly.
“Faith, I did. Wan av them is Francisco Arredondo, a young cavalry
lootinint, an' the other wan is Captain José Benevides, him that do be
the best pistol-shot an' swordsman in the spiggoty army. 'Twas him that
kilt auld Gineral Gonzales in a djuel a month ago.”
“What kind of looking man is this Benevides, my friend?”
“A tall, thin young man, wit' a dude's moustache an' a diamond ring on
his right hand. He do be whiter nor most. Have a care would ye meet him
around the city an' let him pick a fight wit' ye. An' have a care, sor,
would ye go out av a night.”
“Thank you, Don Juan. You're the soul of kindness. What else do you
know?”
“Well,” Don Juan replied with a naïve grin, “I did know somethin' else,
but shure, Misther Geary advised me to forget it. I was wit' him in the
launch last night.”
Webster stepped out of the veranda and laid a friendly hand on Don Juan
Cafetéro's shoulder. “Don Juan,” he said gently, “I'm going back to the
United States very soon. Would you like to come with me?”
Don Juan's watery eyes grew a shade mistier, if possible. He shook
his head. “Whin I'm dhrunk here, sor,” he replied, “no wan pays any
attintion to me, but in America they'd give me ten days in the hoosgow
wanst a week. Thank you, sor, but I'll shtay here till the finish.”
“There axe institutions in America where hopeless inebriates,
self-committed, may be sent for a couple of years. I believe 6 per cent,
are permanently cured. You could be one of the six--and I'd cheerfully
pay for it and give you a good job when you come out.”
Don Juan Cafetéro shook his red head hopelessly. He knew the strength of
the Demon and had long since ceased to fight even a rear-guard action.
Webster put a hand under the stubbly chin and tilted Don Juan's head
sharply. “Hold up your head,” he commanded. “You're the first of your
breed I ever saw who would admit he was whipped. Here's five dollars
for you--five dollars gold. Take it and return with the piece intact
to-morrow morning, Don Juan Cafetéro.”
Don Juan Cafetéro's wondering glance met Webster's directly, wavered,
sought the ground, but at a jerk on his chin came back and--stayed. Thus
for at least ten seconds they gazed at each other; then Webster spoke.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Me name is John J. Cafferty,” the lost one quavered.
“Round one for Cafferty,” Webster laughed. “Good-bye now, until nine
tomorrow. I'll expect you here, John, without fail.” And he took the
derelict's hand and wrung it heartily.
“Well,” Webster remarked to Dolores as he held out his cup for more tea,
“if I'm not the original Tumble Tom, I hope I may never see the back of
my neck.”
“Do you attach any importance to Don Juan's story?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes, but not so much as Don Juan does. However, to be forewarned is to
be forearmed.” He sighed. “I am the innocent bystander,” he explained,
“and I greatly fear I have managed to snarl myself up in a Sobrantean
political intrigue, when I haven't the slightest interest either way.
However, that's only one more reason why I should finish my work here
and get back to Denver.”
“But how did all this happen, Mr. Webster?”
“Like shooting fish in a dry lake, Miss Ruey,” Webster replied, and
related to her in detail the story of his adventure with the Sobrantean
assassins in Jackson Square and his subsequent meeting with Andrew
Bowers aboard _La Estrellita_.
Dolores laughed long and heartily as Webster finished his humorous
recital. “Oh, you're such a very funny man,” she declared. “Billy told
me God only made one Jack Webster and then destroyed the mold; I believe
Billy is right. But do tell me what became of this extraordinary and
unbidden guest.”
“The night the steamer arrived in port, Billy and Don Juan came out in
a launch to say 'Hello,' so I seized upon the opportunity to tell Andrew
to jump overboard and swim to the launch. Gave him a little note to
Billy--carried it in his mouth--instructing Billy to do the right thing
by him--and Billy did it. I don't know what Andrew is up to and I don't
care. Where I was raised we let every man roll his own hoop. All I hope
is that they don't shoot Andrew. If they do, I fear I'll weep. He's
certainly a skookum lad. Do you know, Miss Ruey, I love anybody that can
impose on me--make a monkey out of me, in fact--and make me like it?”
“That's so comforting,” she remarked dryly. Webster looked at
her sharply, suspiciously; her words were susceptible of a dual
interpretation. Her next sentence, however, dissipated this impression.
“Because it confirms what I told you this afternoon when I read your
palm,” she added.
“You didn't know how truly you spoke when you referred to the dark man
that had crossed my path. He's uncomfortably real--drat him!”
“Then you are really concerned?”
“Not at all, but I purpose sleeping with one eye open. I shan't permit
myself to feel concerned until they send more than two men after me--say
eight or ten. A husky American ought to be willing to give these
spiggoties a pull in the weights.”
His indifference appalled her; she leaned forward impulsively and laid
a hand on his forearm. “But you must heed Don Juan's warning,” she
declared seriously. “You must not go out alone at night.”
He grinned boyishly. “Of course not, Miss Ruey. You're going to ride out
with me this evening.”
“I'm not. Don Juan's report has spoiled all that. I'll not subject you
to risk.”
“Very well; then I shall drive out alone.”
“You're a despot, Mr. Webster--a regular despot.”
“Likewise a free agent.”
“I'll go with you.”
“I thought so.”
“You're--you're----”
He rose while she was searching for the right word. “Will you excuse me
until after dinner, Miss Ruey? I'd love to stay and chat with you, even
though it does appear that presently we shall be calling each other
names, but the fact of the matter is--well, I am in a very serious
predicament, and I might as well start right now to prepare to meet any
emergency. For what hour shall I order the carriage?”
“Seven-thirty. After all, they'll not dare to murder you on the
Malecon.”
“I agree with you. It will have to be done very quietly, if at all.
You've been mighty nice to me this afternoon, seeress; I shall be
grateful right up to the moment of dissolution.”
“Speak softly but carry a big stick,” she warned him.
“A big gun,” he corrected here, “--two of them, in fact.”
“Sensible man! I'm not going to worry about you, Mr. Webster.” She
nodded her permission for him to retire, and as he walked down the
veranda and into the hotel, her glance followed him with pardonable
feminine curiosity, marking the breadth of his shoulders, the quick,
springy stride, the alert, erect poise of his head on the powerful neck.
“A doer of deeds are you, John Stuart Webster,” she almost whispered.
“As Kipling would say: '_Wallah!_ But you are a man!'” ^
A stealthy footstep sounded below the veranda she turned and beheld Don
Juan Cafetéro, his hat in his left hand, in his right a gold-piece which
he held toward her.
“Take it, _allanah_,” he wheezed in his hoarse, drunkard's whisper.
“Keep it f'r me till to-morrow, for sorra wan av me can I trust to do
that same--an' be the same token I can't face that big man wit'out it.”
“Why not, Don Juan?”
He hung his red head. “I dunno, Miss,” he replied miserably. “Maybe 'tis
on account av him--the eye av him--the way av him--divil such a man did
I ever meet--God bless him! Shure, Misther Geary do be the fine lad, but
he--he----”
“Mr. Geary never put a big forefinger under your chin and bade you hold
up your head. Is that it?”
“'Tis not what he did, Miss, but the way he did it. All the fiends
av hell 'll be at me this night to shpend what he give me--and I--I'm
afraid----”
He broke off, mumbling and chattering like a man in the grip of a great
terror. In his agony of body and spirit, Dolores could have wept for Don
Juan Cafetéro, for in that supreme moment the derelict's soul was bare,
revealing something pure and sweet and human, for all his degradation.
How did Jack Webster know? wondered Dolores. And why did he so
confidently give an order to this human flotsam and expect it to be
obeyed? And why did Don Juan Cafetéro come whining to her for strength
to help him obey it? Through the murk of her girlish unsophstication
and scant knowledge of human nature these and other questions obtruded
themselves, the while she gazed down at Don Juan's dirty, quivering
hand that held the coin toward her. And presently the answer came--a
quotation long since learned and forgotten:
Be noble--and the nobleness that lies in other men,
Sleeping but never dead,
Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.
“I will not spoil his handiwork,” she told herself, and she stepped
down off the veranda to a position directly in front of Don Juan. “That
wouldn't be playing the game,” she told him. “I can't help you deceive
him. You are the first of your breed----”
“Don't say it,” he cried. “Didn't he tell me wanst?”
“Then make the fight, Don--Mr. Cafferty.” She lowered her voice. “I am
depending on you to stay sober and guard him. He needs a faithful friend
so badly, now that Mr. Geary is away.” She patted the grimy hand and
left him staring at the ground. Presently he sighed, quivered horribly,
and shambled out of the _patio_ on to the firing-line. And when he
reported to Jack Webster at nine o'clock next morning, he was sober,
shaking horribly and on the verge of _delirium tremens_, but tightly
clasped in his right hand he held that five-dollar piece. Dolores, who
had made it her business to be present at the interview, heard John
Stuart Webster say heartily:
“The finest thing about a terrible fight, friend Cafferty, is that if
it is a worth-while battle, the spoils of victory are exceedingly sweet.
You are how about to enjoy one fourth of the said spoils--a large jolt
of _aguardiente!_ You must have it to steady your nerves. Go to the
nearest _cantina_ and buy one drink; then come back with the change. By
that time I shall have breakfasted and you and I will then go shopping.
At noon you shall have another drink; at four o'clock another; and
just before retiring you shall have the fourth and last for this day.
Remember, Cafferty: one jolt--no more--and then back here with the exact
change.”
As Don Juan scurried for salvation, Webster turned to Dolores. “He'll
fail me now, but that will not be his fault but mine. I've set him
too great a task in his present weakened condition. In the process of
exchanging American gold for the local shin-plasters, he'll skin me to
death and emerge from the transaction with a full quart bottle in excess
of his drink. Nevertheless, to use a colloquial expression, I have the
Cafferty goat--and I'm going to keep it.”
Webster went immediately to his room, called for pen and paper, and
proceeded at once to do that which he had never done before--to wit,
prepare his last will and testament. For the first time in his career
death threatened while he had money in his possession, and while he had
before him for performance a task requiring the expenditure of money,
his manifest duty, therefore, was to guarantee the performance of
that task, win, lose, or draw in the game of life; so in a few brief
paragraphs John Stuart Webster made a holographic will and split his
bankroll equally between the two human beings he cared for most--Billy
Geary and Dolores Huey. “Bill's a gambler like me,” he ruminated; “so
I'll play safe. The girl is a conservative, and after Bill's wad is
gone, he'd be boiled in oil before he'd prejudice hers.”
Having made his will, Webster made a copy of it. The original he placed
in an envelope, sealed, and marked: “Last Will and Testament of John S.
Webster, of Denver, Colorado, U. S. A. To be delivered to William H.
Geary upon the death of the testator.” The copy he also placed in an
envelope marked: “From Jack. Not to be opened until after my death.”
This envelope he then enclosed in a larger one and mailed to Billy at
Calle de Concordia No. 19.
Having made his few simple preparations for death, Mr. Webster next
burrowed in his trunk, brought forth his big army-type automatic pistol
and secured it in a holster under his arm, for he deemed it unwise and
provocative of curiosity to appear in immaculate ducks that bulged
at the right hip. Next he filled two spare clips with cartridges
and slipped them into his pocket, thus completing his few simple
preparations for life.
He glanced out the window at the sun. There would still be an hour of
daylight; so he descended to the lobby, called a carriage and drove to
the residence of the American consulate.
Lemuel Tolliver, formerly proprietor of a small retail wood and coal
yard in Hastings, Nebraska, was the consul. He talked through his nose,
employed double negatives, chewed tobacco, wore celluloid cuffs and
collar, and received Mr. Webster in his shirt sleeves. He was the type
of small-town peanut politician who never forgets for an instant that to
be an American is greater than to be a king, and who strives assiduously
to exhibit his horrible idea of American democracy to all and sundry, to
his own profound satisfaction and the shame of his visiting countrymen.
He glanced at the card which Webster had sent in by his clerk. “Well,
sir!” he began briskly. “Delighted to know you, Mr. Webster. Ain't there
nothin' I can do for you?”
“Thank you. There is. This is my will. Please put it in your safe until
I or my executor shall call for it.”
“What!” boomed the Honourable Tolliver. “You ain't thinkin' o' dyin',
are yuh?” he laughed.
“Listen,” Webster urged him, and Mr. Tolliver helped himself to a fresh
bite of chewing-tobacco and inclined his head. Briefly, but without
omitting a single important detail, Webster told the consul of his
adventure in New Orleans with the secret service representative of the
Republic of Sobrante. “And not an hour since,” he concluded, “I was
informed, through a source I consider reliable, that I am in momentary
danger of assassination at the hands of two men whose names I know.”
“Well, don't tell me nothin' about it,” Mr. Tolliver interrupted. “I'm
here on Government affairs, not to straighten out private quarrels. If
you're figurin' on gittin' killed, my advice to you is to git out o' the
country P. D. Q.”
“You overlook the fact that I didn't come here for advice, my dear Mr.
Consul,” Webster reminded him with some asperity. “I'm not at all afraid
of getting killed. What is worrying me is the certainty that I'll get
there first with the most guns, and if I should, in self-defense, be
forced to eliminate two Sobrantean army officers, I want to know what
you're going to do to protect me. I want to make an affidavit that my
life is in danger; I want my witness to make a similar affidavit, and
I want to file those affidavits with you, to be adduced as evidence to
support my plea of selfdefense. In other words, I want to have these
affidavits, with the power of the United States back of them, to spring
in case the Sobrantean government tries to railroad me for murder--and I
want you to spring them for me.”
“I won't do nothin' o' the kind,” Mr. Tolliver declared bluntly. “You
got plenty o' chance to get out o' this country an' save international
complications. _La Estrellita_ pulls out to-morrow mornin', an' you pull
with her, or stay an' take your own chances. I ain't prejudicin' my job
by makin' myself _nux vomica_ to the Sobrantean government--an' that's
just what will happen if I mix up in this private quarrel.”
“But, my dear Mr. Consul, I am going into business here--the mining
business. I have every right in this country, and it is your duty to
protect my rights while here. I can't side-step a fight just to hold you
in your job.”
“It's a matter outside my jurisdiction,” Mr. Tolliver declared with
such a note of finality in his voice that Webster saw the uselessness of
further argument.
“All right,” he replied, holding his temper as best he could. “I'm glad
to know you think so much of your job. I may live long enough to find
an opportunity to kick you out of it and run this consulate myself. I'll
send my affidavits direct to the State department at Washington; you
take orders from Washington, I dare say.”
“When I get them. Good day.”
John Stuart Webster left the American consulate in a frenzy of
inarticulate rage in the knowledge that he was an American and
represented in Sobrante by such an invertebrate as the Honourable Lemuel
Tolliver. At the Hotel Mateo he dismissed the carriage, climbed the
three short steps to the entrance and was passing through the revolving
portal, when from his rear some one gave the door a violent shove, with
the result that the turnstile partition behind him collided with his
back with sufficient force to throw him against the partition in front.
Instantly the door ceased to pivot, with Webster locked neatly in the
triangular space between the two sections of the revolving door and the
jamb.
He turned and beheld in the section behind him an officer of the
Sobrantean army. This individual, observing he was under Webster's
scrutiny, scowled and peremptorily motioned to Webster to proceed--which
the latter did, with such violence that the door, continuing to revolve,
caught up with the Sobrantean and subjected him to the same indignity to
which he had subjected Webster.
Once free of the door, Webster waited just inside the lobby for the
Sobrantean to conclude his precipitate entrance. When he did, Webster
looked him over with mild curiosity and bowed with great condescension.
“Did any gentleman ever tell the senor that he is an ill-mannered
monkey?” he queried coolly in excellent Spanish. “If not, I desire to
give the senor that information, and to tell him that his size alone
prevents me from giving him a nice little spanking.”
“Pig!” the rude one answered hotly. His olive features paled with anger,
he trembled with emotion and seemed undecided what to do--seeing
which Webster grinned at him tantalizingly. That decided him. No
Latin-American, with the exaggerated ego of his race, can bear even a
suspicion of ridicule. The officer walked fiercely toward Webster and
swung his arm toward the latter's face in an effort to land a slap that
was “meant.”
Webster merely threw back his head and avoided the blow; his long left
arm shot out and beat down the Sobrantean's guard; then Webster's right
hand closed around the officer's collar. “Come to me, thou insolent
little one,” he crooned, and jerked his assailant toward him, gathered
him up in his arms, carried him, kicking and screaming with futile rage,
out into the _patio_ and soused him in the fountain.
“Now, then, spitfire, that will cool your hot head, I trust,” he
admonished his unhappy victim, and returned to the hotel. At the desk he
paused.
“Who was that person I just bathed?” he inquired of the excited clerk.
“Ah, senor, you shall not long be kept in ignorance,” that functionary
informed him. “That is the terrible Captain Benavides----”
“Do you know, I had a notion it was he?” Webster replied ruminatively.
“Well, I suppose I'm in for a duel now,” he added to himself as he
climbed the stairs to his room. “I think that will be most interesting.”
John Stuart Webster changed into dry clothing and descended to the
dining room. Miss Ruey was already seated at her table and motioned him
to the seat opposite her, and as he sat down with a contented little
sigh, she gazed at him with a newer and more alert interest.
“I hear you've been having adventures again,” she challenged. “The news
is all over the hotel. I heard it from the head waiter.”
“Coffee and pistols for two at daylight,” he answered cheerily.
“Whenever I see trouble coming and realize that I cannot possibly avoid
it, I generally take the bull by the horns, so to speak, and go forth
to meet it. I have discovered from experience that the surprise of the
attack generally disorganizes the other fellow, for few people care to
fight an eager enemy. I see you have sampled the soup. Is it good?”
“Excellent. I marvel that your appetite is so keen, considering the
gloomy outlook.”
“Oh, there won't be any trouble,” he assured her. “Duelling is silly,
and I wouldn't engage in it on a bet. By the way, I have made my will,
just to be on the safe side. Will you be good enough to take charge of
it until after the funeral? You can turn it over to Billy then.”
She fell readily into the bantering spirit with which he treated this
serious subject. Indeed, it was quite impossible to do otherwise, for
John Stuart Webster's personality radiated such a feeling of security,
of absolute, unbounded confidence in the future and disdain for whatever
of good fortune or ill the future might entail, that Dolores, found it
impossible not to assimilate his mood.
At seven-thirty, after a delightful dinner, the memory of which Mr.
Webster was certain would linger under his foretop long after every
other memory had departed, he escorted her to the open carriage he had
ordered, and for two hours they circled the Malecon with the élite of
Buenaventura, listening to the music of the band, and during the brief
intermissions, to the sound of the waves lapping the beach at the foot
of the broad driveway.
“This,” said John Stuart Webster, as he said goodnight to Dolores in the
lobby, “is the end of a perfect day.”
It wasn't, for at that precise moment a servant handed him a card, and
indicated a young man seated in an adjacent lounging-chair, at the same
time volunteering the information that the visitor had been awaiting
Senor Webster's return for the past hour.
Webster glanced at the card and strode over to the young man. “I am Mr.
Webster, sir,” he announced civilly in Spanish. “And you are Lieutenant
Arredondo?”
The visitor rose, bowed low and indicated he was that gentleman. “I
have called, Mr. Webster,” he stated in most excellent English, “in the
interest of my friend and comrade, Captain Benavides.”
“Ah, yes! The fresh little rooster I ducked in the fountain this
evening. Well, what does the little squirt want now? Another ducking?”
Arredondo flushed angrily but remembered the dignity of his mission and
controlled his temper. “Captain Benavides has asked me to express to you
the hope that you, being doubtless a man of honour----”
“Stop right there, Lieutenant. There is no doubt about it. I _am_ a man
of honour, and unless you are anxious to be ducked in the fountain, you
will be more careful in your choice of words. Now, then: You are about
to say that, being a man of honour----”
“You would accord my friend the satisfaction which one gentleman never
fails to accord another.”
“That lets me out, _amigo_.” Webster laughed. “Benavides isn't a
gentleman. He's a cutthroat, a murdering little black-and-tan hound. Do
I understand he wants me to fight a duel with him?”
Lieutenant Arredondo could not trust himself to speak, and so he bowed
profoundly.
“Very well, then, Lieutenant,” Webster agreed. “I'll fight him.”
“To-morrow morning at five o'clock.”
“Five minutes from now if you say so.”
“Captain Benavides will be grateful for your willing spirit, at least,”
the second replied bitterly. “You realize, of course, Mr. Webster, that
as the challenged party, the choice of weapons rests with you.”
“Certainly. I wouldn't have risked a duel if the choice lay with the
other fellow. With your permission, my dear sir, we'll fight with Mauser
rifles at a thousand yards, for the reason that I never knew a greaser
that could hit the broad side of a brewery at any range over two hundred
and fifty yards.” Webster chuckled fiendishly.
Lieutenant Arredondo bit his lips in anger and vexation. “I cannot
agree to such an extraordinary duel,” he complained. “Have you no other
choice?”
“Well, since a fight at long range doesn't suit you, suppose we have one
at close range. I propose that our seconds handcuff us together by our
left wrists, give each of us a knife and leave us alone in a room for a
couple of minutes.”
“My friend, Captain Benavides, sir, is not a butcher,” Arredondo
reminded Mr. Webster acidly. “In such a fight as you describe, he would
be at a great disadvantage.”
“You're whistling--he would. I'd swing him around my head with my left
hand and dash his fool brains out.”
“It is the custom in Sobrante for gentlemen to fight with rapiers.”
“Oh, dry up, you sneaking murderer,” Webster exploded. “There isn't
going to be any duel except on my terms--so you might as well take a
straight tip from headquarters and stick to plain assassination. You and
Benavides have been sent out by your superior to kill me--you got your
orders this very afternoon at the entrance to the government palace--and
I'm just not going to be killed. I don't like the way you part your
hair, and I despise a man who uses cologne and wears his handkerchief up
his sleeve; so beat it, boy, while the going is good.” He pointed toward
the hotel door. “Out, you blackguard!” he roared. “_Vaya!_”
Lieutenant Arredondo rose and with dignified mien started for the door.
Webster followed, and as his visitor reached the portal, a tremendous
kick, well placed, lifted him down to the sidewalk. Shrieking curses, he
fled into the night; and John Stuart Webster, with a satisfied feeling
that something accomplished had earned a night's repose, retired to
his room and his mauve silk pyjamas, and slept the sleep of a healthy,
conscience-free man. It did occur to him that the morrow would almost
certainly bring forth something unpleasant, but that prospect did not
worry him. John Stuart Webster had a religion all his own, and one
of the principal tenets of this faith of his was an experience-born
conviction that to-morrow is always another day.
At about the same hour Neddy Jerome, playing solitaire in the Engineers'
Club in Denver, was the recipient of a cablegram which read:
_If W. cables accepting reply rejecting account job filled otherwise
beans spilled. Implicit obedience spells victory._
_Henrietta._
Neddy Jerome wiped his spectacles, adjusted them on his nose and read
this amazing message once more. “Jumped-up Jehosophat!” he murmured. “If
she hasn't followed that madcap Webster clear to Buenaventura! If she
isn't out in earnest to earn her fee, I'm an orang-outang! By thunder,
that's a smart woman. Evidently she has Jack winging; he is willing to
return and go to work for me, but for reasons of her own she doesn't
want him to win too easy a victory. Well, I guess she knows her own
game better than I do; so I should worry how she plays it. 'Implicit
obedience spells victory.' Victory means that crazy Webster takes the
job I offered him. All right! I'll be implicitly obedient.”
Two hours later Neddy Jerome received another cablegram. It was from
John Stuart Webster and read as follows:
Hold job ninety days at latest may be back before. If satisfactory
cable.
Again Mr. Jerome had recourse to the most powerful expletive at
his command. “Henrietta knew he was going to cable and beat the
old sour-dough to it,” he soliloquized. He was wrapped in profound
admiration of her cunning for as much as five minutes; then he indicted
this reply to his victim:
_Time, tide and good jobs wait for no man. Sorry. Job already filled by
better man._
When John Stuart Webster received that cablegram the following morning,
he cursed bitterly--not because he had lost the best job that had ever
been offered him, but because he had lost through playing a good hand
poorly. He hated himself for his idiocy.