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of a redder countenance. His manner was as cordial as before, but his mood
was not so jovial.

"I am always worrying about something or other, and just now it is my

health," he told Hemming. "You don't know what I'd give, captain, for a life
like yours—and a good hard body like yours. But I can't drop this job now.
It's the very devil, I can tell you, to have one's brain and nerves jumping and
twanging all the time, while one's carcass lolls about and puts on fat. I'm
sorry I was so smart when I was a kid. Otherwise the old man would not
have sent me to college, and I'd never have hustled myself into this slavery.
My father was a lumberman, and so was my grandfather. They had big
bodies, just like mine, but they lived the right kind of lives for their bodies."

Hemming felt sorry for him. He saw that the gigantic body was at strife
with the manner of life to which it was held, and that the same physique
that had proved itself a blessing to the lumberman, was a menace to the
desk-worker.

"Better take a few months in the woods," he suggested.

Dodder laughed bitterly. "You might just as well advise me to take a few
months in heaven," he said.

Hemming asked for news of O'Rourke.

The manager's face lighted.

"O'Rourke," he exclaimed, "is a man wise in his generation. Shackles of

gold couldn't hold that chap from his birthright of freedom. He did us some
fine work for a time,—rode with Gomez and got his news out somehow or
other,—but went under with enteric and left Cuba. We kept him on, of
course, but as soon as he could move around again he resigned his position.
He said he had some very pressing business affair to see to."

"Is he well again?" asked Hemming, anxiously.

"Oh, yes, he's able to travel," replied Dodder. "He was here only a week
ago. He seems to be making a tour of the Eastern cities. I guess he's looking
for something."

"An editor, likely, who has lost some of his manuscripts," remarked
Hemming.

"Or a girl," said the other.

"Why a girl?" asked the Englishman.

Dodder smiled pensively. "I like to think so," he said, "for though I am
nothing but a corpulent business slave myself, I've a fine active brain for
romance, and the heart of a Lochinvar."

Hemming nodded gravely. Dodder laughed at him. "You are thinking

what a devilish big horse I need," he said.

They dined together that evening at the Reform Club, and Hemming
was amazed at the quantity of food the big man consumed. He had seen
O'Rourke, the long, lean, and broad, sit up to some hearty meals after a day
in the saddle, but never had he met with an appetite like Dodder's. It was the
appetite of his ancestral lumbermen, changed a little in taste, perhaps, but
the same in vigour.

War was in order between the United States of America and Spain.
General Shafter's army was massing in Tampa, Florida, and Hemming, with
letters from the syndicate, started for Washington to procure a pass from the
War Office. But on the night before his departure from New York came
news from London of his book, and the first batch of proof-sheets for
correction. He worked until far into the morning, and mailed the proofs,
together with a letter, before breakfast. Arriving in Washington, he went
immediately to the War Department building, and handed in his letters. The
clerk returned and asked him to follow to an inner room. There he found a
pale young man, with an imposing, closely printed document in his hand.

"Captain Hemming?" inquired the gentleman.

Hemming bowed.
 "Your credentials are correct," continued the official, "and the Secretary
of War has signed your passport. Please put your name here."

Hemming signed his name on the margin of the document, folded it, and
stowed it in a waterproof pocketbook, and bowed himself out. He was about
to close the door behind him when the official called him back.

"You forgot something, captain," said the young man, holding a packet
made up of about half a dozen letters toward him.

"Not I," replied Hemming. He glanced at the letters, and read on the top
one "Bertram St. Ives O'Rourke, Esq."

"O'Rourke," he exclaimed.

"How stupid of me," cried the young man.

"Where is he? When was he here?" inquired Hemming. "He is a

particular friend of mine," he added.

The official considered for a second or two.

"Tall chap with a yellow face and a silk hat, isn't he?" he asked.

"Tall enough," replied Hemming, "but he had neither a yellow face nor a
silk hat when I saw him last—that was in Jamaica, about a year ago."

At that moment the door opened and O'Rourke entered. Without

noticing Hemming he gave a folded paper to the clerk.

"You'll find that right enough," he said—and then his eye lighted upon
his old comrade. He grasped the Englishman by the shoulders and shook
him backward and forward, grinning all the while a wide, yellow grin.

"My dear chap," protested Hemming, "where have you been to acquire
this demonstrative nature?"

"Lots of places. Come and have a drink," exclaimed O'Rourke.

 "I'll mail that to your hotel," called the pale young man after them, as
they hurried out.

"What are you up to now, my son?" inquired Hemming, critically

surveying the other's faultless attire. "You look no end of a toff, in spite of
your yellow face."

"Thanks, and I feel it," replied his friend, "but my release is at hand, for
to-night I shall hie me to mine uncle's and there deposit these polite and
costly garments. Already my riding-breeches and khaki tunic are airing over
the end of my bed."

"But why this grandeur, and this wandering about from town to town?"
asked Hemming. He caught the quick look of inquiry on his friend's face.
"Dodder told me you'd been aimlessly touring through the Eastern States,"
he added.

"Here we are—come in and I'll tell you about it," replied O'Rourke.
They entered the Army and Navy Club, and O'Rourke, with a very-much-at-
home air, led the way to a quiet inner room.

"I suppose we'll split the soda the same old way—as we did before
sorrow and wisdom came to us," sighed O'Rourke. He gave a familiar order
to the attentive waiter. Hemming looked closely at his companion, and
decided that the lightness was only a disguise.

"Tell me the yarn, old boy—I know it's of more than fighting and fever,"
he said, settling himself comfortably in his chair.

O'Rourke waited until the servant had deposited the glasses and retired.
Then he selected two cigars from his case with commendable care, and,
rolling one across the table, lit the other. He inhaled the first draught lazily.

"These are deuced fine cigars," remarked Hemming. O'Rourke nodded

his head, and, with his gaze upon the blue drift of smoke, began his story.

"I was in a very bad way when I got out of that infernal island last time.
I had a dose of fever that quite eclipsed any of my former experiences in
that line—also a bullet-hole in the calf of my left leg. Maybe you noticed
my limp, and thought I was feigning gout. A tug brought me back to this
country, landing me at Port Tampa. Some patriotic Cubans were waiting for
me, and I made the run up to Tampa in a car decorated with flags. I wore
my Cuban uniform, you know, and must have looked more heroic than I
felt."

Hemming raised his eyebrows at that.

"I'm a major in the Cuban army—the devil take it," explained O'Rourke.

"The patriots escorted me to a hotel," he continued, "but the manager

looked at my banana-hued face and refused to have anything to do with me
at any price. Failing in this, my tumultuous friends rushed me to a wooden
hospital, at the end of a river of brown sand which the inhabitants of that
town call an avenue. I was put to bed in the best room in the place, and then
my friends hurried away, each one to find his own doctor to offer me. I was
glad of the quiet, for I felt about as beastly as a man can feel without
flickering out entirely. I don't think my insides just then would have been
worth more than two cents to any one but a medical student. The matron—
at least that's what they called her—came in to have a look at me, and ask
me questions. She was young, and she was pretty, and her impersonal
manner grieved me even then. I might have been a dashed pacifico for all
the interest she showed in me, beyond taking my temperature and ordering
the fumigation of my clothes. I wouldn't have felt so badly about it if she
had not been a lady—but she was, sure enough, and her off-hand treatment
very nearly made me forget my cramps and visions of advancing land-
crabs. During the next few days I didn't know much of anything. When my
head felt a little clearer, the youthful matron brought me a couple of
telegrams. I asked her to open them, and read them to me. Evidently my
Cuban friends had reported the state of my health, and other things, for both
telegrams were tender inquiries after my condition.

"'You seem to be a person of some importance,' she said, regarding me

as if I were a specimen in a jar.

"'My name is O'Rourke,' I murmured. For awhile she stared at me in a

puzzled sort of way. Suddenly she blushed.
 "'I beg your pardon, Mr. O'Rourke,' she said, and sounded as if she
meant it. I felt more comfortable, and sucked my ration of milk and lime-
water with relish. Next day the black orderly told me that the matron was
Miss Hudson, from somewhere up North. He didn't know just where. I gave
him a verbal order on the hospital for a dollar.

"Presently Miss Hudson came in and greeted me cheerfully. 'Why do

you want Harley to have a dollar?' she asked.

"'Just for a tip,' I replied, wearily.

"'He is paid to do his work, and if some patients fee him, the poorer
ones will suffer,' she said.

"'But I want him to have it, please. He told me your name,' I said.

"She paid no more attention to this foolish remark than if I had sneezed.
Indeed, even less, for if I had sneezed she would have taken my pulse or my
temperature. I watched her as she moved about the room seeing that all was
clean and in order.

"'Miss Hudson,' I said, gaining courage, 'will you tell me what is going
on in the world? Have you a New York paper?'

"'Yes, some papers have come for you,' she answered, 'and I will read to
you for a little while, if you feel strong enough to listen. There is a letter,
too. Shall I open it for you?'

"She drew a chair between my bed and the window, and, first of all,
examined the letter.

"'From the New York News Syndicate,' she said.

"'Then it's only a check,' I sighed.

"'I shall put it away with the money you had when you came,' she said.
She opened a paper, glanced at it, and wrinkled her white brow at me.

"'Are you the Bertram St. Ives O'Rourke?" she asked.

 "'No, indeed,' I replied. 'He has been dead a long time. He was an
admiral in the British navy.'

"'I have never heard of him,' she answered, 'but there is a man with that
name who writes charming little stories, and verses, too, I think.'

"'Oh, that duffer,' I exclaimed, faintly.

"She laughed quietly. 'There is an article about him here—at least I

suppose it is the same man.' She glanced down the page and then up at me.
'An angel unawares,' she laughed, and chaffed me kindly about my
modesty.

"After that we became better friends every day, though she often
laughed at the way some of the papers tried to make a hero of me. That hurt
me, because really I had gone through some awful messes, and been sniped
at a dozen times. The Spaniards had a price on my head. I told her that, but
she didn't seem impressed. As soon as I was able to see people, my friends
the Cuban cigar manufacturers called upon me, singly and in pairs, each
with a gift of cigars. These are out of their offerings. The more they did
homage to me, the less seriously did Miss Hudson seem to regard my
heroism. But she liked me—yes, we were good friends."

O'Rourke ceased talking and pensively flipped the ash off his cigar.
Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the ceiling.

"Well?" inquired his friend. O'Rourke returned to the narration of his

experience with a visible effort.

"After awhile she read to me, for half an hour or so, every day. One
evening she read a ballad of my own; by gad, it was fine. But then, even the
Journal sounded like poetry when she got hold of it. From that we got to
talking about ourselves to each other, and she told me that she had learned
nursing, after her freshman year at Vassar, because of a change in her
father's affairs. She had come South with a wealthy patient, and, after his
recovery, had accepted the position of matron, or head nurse, of that little
hospital. In return, I yarned away about my boyhood, my more recent
adventures, my friends, and my ambitions. At last my doctor said I could
leave the hospital, but must go North right away. My leg was healed, but
otherwise I looked and felt a wreck. I was so horribly weak, and my nights
continued so crowded with suffering and delirium, that I feared my
constitution was ruined. I tried to keep myself in hand when Miss Hudson
was around, but she surely guessed that I loved her."

"What's that?" interrupted Hemming.

"I said that I loved her," retorted O'Rourke, defiantly.

"Go ahead with the story," said the Englishman.

"When the time came for my departure," continued O'Rourke, "and the
carriage was waiting at the curb, I just kissed her hand and left without
saying a word. I came North and got doctors to examine me. They said that
my heart and lungs were right as could be, and that the rest of my gear
would straighten up in time. They promised even a return of my
complexion with the departure of the malaria from my blood. But I must
live a quiet life for awhile, they said; so to begin the quiet life I returned to
Tampa, and that hospital. But I did not find the girl."

"Was she hiding?" inquired Hemming. "Perhaps she had heard some
stories to your discredit."

"No," said O'Rourke, "she had resigned, and left the town, with her
father. Evidently her troubles were ended—just as mine were begun."

"What did you do about it?" asked Hemming, whose interest was
thoroughly aroused.

"Oh, I looked for her everywhere—in Boston, and New York, and
Baltimore, and Washington, and read all the city directories," replied the
disconsolate lover, "but I do not know her father's first name, and you have
no idea what a lot of Hudsons there are in the world."

Hemming discarded the butt of his cigar, and eyed his friend
contemplatively.
 "I suppose you looked in the registers of the Tampa hotels?" he queried.
"The old chap's name and perhaps his address would be there."

O'Rourke started from his chair, with dismay and shame written on his
face.

"Sit down and have another," said Hemming; "we'll look it up in a few
days."

CHAPTER X.

LIEUTENANT ELLIS IS CONCERNED

By the time Hemming and O'Rourke reached Tampa, about thirty

thousand men had gone under canvas in the surrounding pine groves and
low-lying waste places. There were Westerners and Easterners, regulars and
volunteers, and at Port Tampa a regiment of coloured cavalry. Troops were
arriving every day. Colonel Wood and Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt, with
their splendid command of mounted infantry, had just pitched their shelter-
tents in a place of scrub palmetto, behind the big hotel. Taken altogether, it
was an army that made Hemming stare.

The friends went to a quiet hotel with wide verandas, cool rooms, open
fireplaces, and what proved equally attractive, reasonable rates. They
inquired of the clerk about Mr. Hudson. He remembered the gentleman
well, though he had spent only two days in the place. "He had a daughter
with him," the man informed them, and, turning to the front of the register,
looked up the name. "There's the signature, sir, and you're welcome to it,"
he said. The correspondents examined it intently for some time.

"We know that that means Hudson," remarked O'Rourke, at last, "and I
should guess John for the other sprawl."
 "Sprawl is good," said Hemming, straightening his monocle, "but any
one can see that Robert is the name."

"I've put a lot of study on it," said the clerk, "and so has the boss, and
we've about agreed to call it Harold."

"Take your choice," said O'Rourke, "but tell me what you make of the
address."

"Boston," cried the clerk.

They stared at him. "You were all ready," said Hemming.

"Yes, sir," he replied, "for I've been thinking it over for some time."

"Why the devil didn't you ask him?" inquired O'Rourke, fretfully.

"Lookee here, colonel," said the hotel man, "if you know Mr. Hudson,
you know darn well why I didn't ask him where he came from."

"High and haughty?" queried O'Rourke.

The clerk nodded.

"You had better reconsider your course, old chap," laughed the
Englishman.

His friend did not reply. He was again intent on the register.

"I make seven letters in it," he said, "and I'll swear to that for an N."

"N nothing," remarked the clerk; "that's a B."

"Yes, it is a B, I think, and to me the word looks like—well, like

Balloon," said Hemming.

O'Rourke sighed. "Of course it is New York; see the break in the
middle, and a man is more likely to come from there than from a balloon,"
he said.
 "Some men go away in balloons, sir," suggested the clerk.

Just then the proprietor of the hotel entered and approached the desk. He
Was an imposing figure of a man, tall and deep, and suitably dressed in the
roomiest of light tweeds. His face was round and clever. He shook hands
with the new arrivals.

"Military men, I believe," he said.

"Not just now," replied Hemming.

"Do you know where Mr. Hudson is at present?" asked O'Rourke, in

casual tones.

"Mr. Hudson, of Philadelphia? Why, no, sir, I can't say that I do,"
answered the big man.

"How do you know he's of Philadelphia?" asked the Englishman.

"He wrote it in the register; look for yourself," was the reply.

"No," said O'Rourke, mournfully, "but it is a very dry evening, and if

you will honour us with your company as far as the bar, Mr.—"

"Stillman,—delighted, sir," hastily replied the proprietor.

The three straightway sought that cool retreat, leaving the clerk to
brood, with wrinkled brow, above the puzzle so unconsciously donated to
him by a respectable one-time guest.

The weary delay in that town of sand and disorder at last came to an
end, and Hemming and O'Rourke, with their passports countersigned by
General Shafter, went aboard the Olivette. Most of the newspaper men were
passengers on the same boat. During the rather slow trip, they made many
friends and a few enemies. One of the friends was a youth with a camera,
sent to take pictures for the same weekly paper which O'Rourke
represented. The landing in Cuba of a part of the invading forces and the
correspondents was made at Baiquiri, on the southern coast. The woful
mismanagement of this landing has been written about often enough.
O'Rourke and Hemming, unable to procure horses, set off toward Siboney
on foot, and on foot they went through to Santiago with the ragged, hungry,
wonderful army. They did their work well enough, and were thankful when
it was over. Hemming admired the American army—up to a certain grade.
Part of the time they had a merry Toronto journalist for messmate, a
peaceful family man, who wore a round straw hat and low shoes throughout
the campaign. During the marching (but not the fighting), O'Rourke
happened upon several members of his old command. One of the meetings
took place at midnight, when the Cuban warrior was in the act of carrying
away Hemming's field-glasses and the Toronto man's blanket.

After the surrender of Santiago, Hemming received word to cover Porto

Rico. He started at the first opportunity in a gunboat that had once been a
harbour tug. O'Rourke, who was anxious to continue his still hunt for the
lady who had nursed him, returned to Florida, and from thence to New
York.

In Porto Rico Hemming had an easy and pleasant time. He struck up an

acquaintance that soon warmed to intimacy with a young volunteer
lieutenant of infantry, by name Ellis. Ellis was a quiet, well-informed youth;
in civil life a gentleman-at-large with a reputation as a golfer. With his
command of sixteen men he was stationed just outside of Ponce, and under
the improvised canvas awning before his door he and Hemming exchanged
views and confidences. One evening, while the red eyes of their green
cigars glowed and dimmed in the darkness, Hemming told of his first
meeting with O'Rourke. He described the little boat tossing toward them
from the vast beyond, the poncho bellied with the wind, and the lean,
undismayed adventurer smoking at the tiller. Ellis sat very quiet, staring
toward the white tents of his men.

"Is that the same O'Rourke who was once wounded in Cuba, and later
nearly died of fever in Tampa?" he asked, when Hemming was through.

"Yes, the same man," said Hemming, "and as decent a chap as ever put
foot in stirrup. Do you know him?"

"No, but I have heard a deal about him," replied the lieutenant. It did not
surprise Hemming that a man should hear about O'Rourke. Surely the good
old chap had worked hard enough (in his own daring, vagrant way) for his
reputation. He brushed a mosquito away from his neck, and smoked on in
silence.

"I have heard a—a romance connected with your friend O'Rourke," said
Ellis, presently, in a voice that faltered. Hemming pricked up his ears at
that.

"So have I. Tell me what you have heard," he said.

"It is not so much what I've heard, as who I heard it from," began the
lieutenant, "and it's rather a personal yarn. I met a girl, not long ago, and we
seemed to take to each other from the start. I saw her frequently, and I got
broken up on her. Then I found out that, though she liked me better than any
other fellow in sight, she did not love me one little bit. She admired my
form at golf, and considered my conversation edifying, but when it came to
love, why, there was some one else. Then she told me about O'Rourke. She
had nursed him in Tampa for several months, just before the time old
Hudson had recaptured his fortune."

"O'Rourke told me something about it," said Hemming. "He thought, at

the time, that he was an invalid for life, so he did not let her know how he
felt about her. Afterward the doctors told him he was sound as a bell, and
ever since—barring this last Cuban business—he has been looking for her."

"But he does not know that she loves him?" queried Ellis.

"I really couldn't say," replied Hemming.

Ellis shifted his position, and with deft fingers rerolled the leaf of his
moist cigar. In a dim sort of way he wondered if he could give up the girl.
In time, perhaps, she would love him—if he could keep O'Rourke out of
sight. A man in the little encampment began to sing a sentimental negro
melody. The clear, sympathetic tenor rang, like a bugle-call, across the
stagnant air. A banjo, with its wilful pathos, tinkled and strummed.

"Listen! that is Bolls, my sergeant. He is a member of the Harvard Glee

Club," said the lieutenant.
 Hemming listened, and the sweet voice awoke the bitter memories.
Presently he asked: "What is Miss Hudson's address?"

"She is now in Europe, with her father," replied his companion. "Their
home is in Marlow, New York State."

"May I let O'Rourke know?" asked Hemming.

"Certainly," replied Ellis, scarce above a whisper. He wondered what

nasty, unsuspected devil had sprung to power within him, keeping him from
telling that the home in Marlow was by this time in the hands of strangers,
and that the Hudsons intended living in New York after their return from
Europe.

O'Rourke had asked Hemming to write to him now and then, to the
Army and Navy Club at Washington, where the letters would be sure to find
him sooner or later; so Hemming wrote him the glad information from
Porto Rico.

CHAPTER XI.

HEMMING DRAWS HIS BACK PAY

Hemming walked down Broadway on the morning of a bright

November day. The hurrying crowds on the pavements, however weary at
heart, looked glad and eager in the sunlight. The stir of the wide street got
into his blood, and he stepped along with the air of one bound upon an
errand that promised more than money. He entered a cigar store, and filled
his case with Turkish cigarettes. Some newspapers lay on the counter, but
he turned away from them, for he was sick of news. Further along, he
glanced into the windows of a book-shop. His gaze alighted upon the figure
of a Turkish soldier. Across the width of the sheet ran the magic words,
"Where Might Is Right. A Book of the Greco-Turkish War. By Herbert
Hemming."

As one walks in a dream, Hemming entered the shop. "Give me a copy

of that book," he said.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" inquired the shopman.

Hemming recovered his wits.

"I want a copy of 'Where Might Is Right,' by Hemming," he said. He

laid aside his gloves and stick, and opened the book with loving hands. His
first book. The pride of it must have been very apparent on his tanned face,
for the man behind the counter smiled.

"I have read that book myself," ventured the man. "I always read a book
that I sell more than twenty copies of in one day."

Hemming glowed, and continued his scrutiny of the volume. On one of

the first pages was printed, "Authorized American Edition." The name of
the publishers was S——'s Sons.

"Where do S——'s Sons hang out?" he asked, as he paid for the book.

"Just five doors below this," said the man.

"I'll look in there," decided Hemming, "before I call on Dodder."

The war correspondent was cordially received by the head of the great
publishing house. He was given a comprehensive account of the
arrangements made between his London and New York publishers, and
these proved decidedly satisfactory. The business talk over, Hemming
prepared to go.

"I hope you will look me up again before you leave town," said the head
of the firm, as they shook hands.

Arrived in the outer office of the New York News Syndicate, Hemming
inquired for Mr. Dodder. The clerk stared at him with so strange an
expression that his temper suffered.

"Well, what the devil is the matter?" he exclaimed.

"Mr. Dodder is dead," replied the youth. Just then Wells came from an
inner room, caught sight of the Englishman, and approached.

"So you're back, are you?" he remarked, with his hands in his pockets.
Hemming was thinking of the big, kind-hearted manager, and replied by
asking the cause of his death. "Apoplexy. Are you ready to sail for the
Philippines? Why didn't you wait in Porto Rico for orders?" he snapped.

"Keep cool, my boy," said Hemming's brain to Hemming's heart.

Hemming himself said, with painful politeness: "I can be ready in two days,
Mr. Wells, but first we must make some new arrangements as to expenses
and salary."

"Do you think you are worth more than you get?" sneered Wells. "Has
that book that you wrote, when we were paying you to do work for us,
given you a swelled head?"

Hemming was about to reply when an overgrown young man, a

bookkeeper, who had been listening, nudged his elbow roughly.

"Here's your mail," he said.

Hemming placed the half-dozen letters in his pocket. His face was quite
pale, considering the length of time he had been in the tropics. He took the
overgrown youth by the front of his jacket and shook him. Then he twirled
him deftly and pushed him sprawling against his enraged employer. Both
went down, swearing viciously. The other inmates of the great room stared
and waited. Most of them looked pleased. An office boy, who had received
notice to leave that morning, sprang upon a table. "Soak it to 'em, Dook.
Soak it to 'em, you bang-up Chawley. Dey can't stand dat sort o' health
food."

Wells got to his feet. The bookkeeper scrambled up and rushed at

Hemming. He was received in a grip that made him repent his action.
 "Mr. Wells," said Hemming, "I shall hold on to this gentleman, who
does not seem to know how to treat his superiors, until he cools off, and in
the meantime I'll trouble you for what money is due me, up to date. Please
accept my resignation at the same time."

"I'll call a copper," sputtered Wells.

The door opened, and the head of the publishing house of S——'s Sons
entered.

"Good Lord, what is the trouble?" he cried.

"I am trying to draw my pay," explained Hemming.

The new arrival looked at the ruffled, confused Wells with eyes of
contempt and suspicion.

"I'll wait for you, Mr. Hemming, on condition that you will lunch with
me," he cried.

A few minutes later they left the building, and in his pocket Hemming
carried a check for the sum of his back pay.

"In a month from now," said his companion, "that concern will not be
worth as much as your check is written for. Even poor old Dodder had all
he could do to hold it together. He had the brains and decency, and that
fellow had the money."

By the time lunch was over, Hemming found himself once more in
harness, but harness of so easy a fit that not a buckle galled. The billet was a
roving commission from S——'s Sons to do articles of unusual people and
unusual places for their illustrated weekly magazine. He spent the afternoon
in reading and writing letters. He advised every one with whom he had
dealings of his new headquarters. He had a good collection of maps, and sat
up until three in the morning pondering over them. Next day he bought
himself a camera, and overhauled his outfit. By the dawn of the third day
after his separation from the syndicate, he had decided to start northward,
despite the season.
 The clamour of battle was no longer his guide. Now the Quest of the
Little-Known was his. It brought him close to many hearths, and taught him
the hearts of all sorts and conditions of men. In the span of a few years, it
made him familiar with a hundred villages between Nain in the North and
Rio de Janeiro in the South. He found comfort under the white lights of
strange cities, and sought peace in various wildernesses. Under the canvas
roof and the bark, as under the far-shining shelters of the town, came ever
the dream of his old life for bedfellow.

END OF PART I.
 PART TWO

CHAPTER I.

THE UNSUSPECTED CITY

Hemming happened upon the city of Pernamba on the evening of a

sultry day in April. He manifested no surprise beyond straightening his
monocle in his eye.

"Hope they have some English soda-water down there," he said to the
heavy foliage about him, "but I suppose it would be hardly fair to expect an
ice factory so far from the coast." For a second a vision of tall glasses and
ice that clinked came to his mind's eye. He remembered the cool dining-
rooms of his friends in Pernambuco. He spurred his native-bred steed to a
hesitating trot along the narrow, hoof-worn path that led down to the valley.
At a mud and timber hut set beneath banana-trees, and backed by a tiny
field, he drew rein. A woman sat before the door, looking cool and at ease in
her scanty cotton dress. A naked child chased a pig among the bananas.
Hemming greeted the woman in Portuguese. She gave him humble greeting
in return. The pig and the baby came near to listen. Hemming swung his
feet free from the stirrups, to straighten the kink out of his knees. He pushed
back his pith helmet, and lit a cigarette.

"What is the name of the town?" he asked, smiling reassuringly.

The woman told him, standing respectfully on the earthen threshold.

Such square shoulders and clear eyes as this Englishman's were not every-
day sights in Pernamba.
 "May a stranger find entertainment there?" he inquired.

"Yes," she replied, "and the great man who owns it is generous to
strangers. He is a big man, full of wisdom, smoking eternally a yellow cigar
not of this country."

Hemming dismounted, the better to rest his horse. Although he had

ridden all that day and the day before, he felt no fatigue himself. The
tropical sun, the narrow water-cut paths, and the clambering vines held in
the heated air and luring him with strange flowers, brought him no terror.
But he polished his monocle and sighed uneasily, for his store of milreis had
dwindled since leaving Pernambuco a week before to a sum equalling about
eleven pounds in English money.

"Has this man an army?" he asked.

"Truly a great army," replied the woman, "for I have seen it myself,
riding after thieves. It numbers five hundred men, all armed, and wearing
white tunics, and all paid for by this man. He must be richer than a king to
support so grand an army."

Hemming smiled toward the white and red roofs and clumps of foliage
in the valley, thinking, maybe, of his own old regiment, of Aldershot during
a review, of the hill batteries that had supported the infantry advance in
India, and of the fifty regiments under canvas in Tampa.

"I crave a drink," he said,—"a finger of your good casash in a bowl of

cool water."

The woman brought it, smiling with hospitality, and would not accept
the ragged bill which he held out to her.

"It is a pleasure," cried she, "to slake the thirst of so distinguished a

señor."

Hemming bowed gravely, a smile lifting his upturned, pale moustache.

The baby came close, on all fours, and examined his yellow riding-boots
and straight spurs. Hemming patted the small one's limp black hair.
 "This is a kindly world," he said in English, then to the woman: "Let thy
son wear this ring,—see, it fits his thumb. Should any man ask the name of
his friend, say it is Hemming, an Englishman."

He pushed the child gently toward its mother, and, swinging to his
saddle, rode down toward the city. His gray eyes took in everything,—the
yellowing fruit, the fields of cane, the mud huts of the poor, the thin horses
of the charcoal-burners crowding out of the trail to let him pass, and the
patches of manioc.

All this he beheld with satisfaction. In a thin book he made a note, thus:
"Pernamba, name of town evidently run by a governor of independent
spirit. Army of 500, evidently mounted infantry. Welcomed to outskirts of
city by kind peasant woman, evening of April 6, 19—. Same climate and
crops as rest of Brazil. Eleven pounds in my pockets in Brazilian notes and
small coin. What does Pernamba hold for H.H. I wonder? A dinner or two,
perhaps, and a couple of chapters for my book."

Presently the twisting path met a highway between royal palms. Good-
sized villas, their walls all blue and white with glazed tiles, their roofs
dusky red, or else flat and railed about with white stones, each in its
separate garden. The gardens were enclosed by high walls of brick, such as
he had seen many times in the resident sections of Pernambuco. For months
he had lived in just such a house, and lolled in just such a garden.

"The old Dutch influence," he said, tossing his cigarette over the nearest
wall. A bullock-cart came creaking along the road, the patient cattle, with
heads held low and a straight yoke across their wrinkled necks, the driver
walking at their heels, sombre with dust, and daintily puffing a cigarette.
The cart was loaded with sacks of sugar, which sent up a heavy, sickly
smell. Hemming hailed the driver.

"Where does the governor live, my friend?"

"The President, señor? There behind the white panthers." With the
stock of his rawhide whip, the fellow pointed to an iron gate, set between
posts of red brick, topped with marble panthers. Each panther held a shield
between its front paws. Hemming threw the bullock-driver a coin, and rode
on the pavement, the better to examine the armorial design on the shields.
He laughed softly.

"Familiar," he said, "ah, yes, a good enough old Devonshire shield. I

have admired it in the dining-room of the Governor of Newfoundland. Now
I doff my hat to it at the entrance of a president's residence. Dash it all, I
have outgrown dismay, and a jolly good thing, too." He flecked a leaf off
his knee with the tip of his glove.

"Queer I never heard about this before,—and what the deuce is a

Brazilian doing with those arms? Can this be where that crazy American
whom old Farrington told me about hangs out?" His brow cleared, and he
bowed to the expressionless panthers.

A sentry, who had been standing a few paces off, with a cavalry sabre at
his shoulder and a cigarette in his mouth, now drew near and saluted.
Hemming returned the salute sharply. This same custom of smoking on
sentry-go had jarred on him many a time in Pernambuco. He had noticed
the same thing in Bahia.

"I would see the President," he said, and passed his card to the soldier.
From a small guard-house just inside the wall came several more white-clad
men. One of these hurried away with Hemming's card, and presently
returned. The gates were swung wide open; Hemming rode in at a dress-
parade trot, travel-stained, straight of back, his monocle flashing in his eye.
Soldiers posted here and there among the palms and roses and trim flower-
beds stood at attention as he passed.

He drew rein and dismounted at the foot of the marble steps. A tall,
heavily built man, dressed in a black frock coat and white trousers, came
down to meet him. A man in livery took his horse.

"Mr. Hemming," said the large man, "I am the President." He popped a
fat, yellow cigar into his mouth, and shook hands. "Come in," he said. He
led the way into a large tiled room, containing a billiard-table of the
American kind, a roll-top desk, and an office chair. The windows of the
room were all on one side, and opened on a corner of the gardens, in which
a fountain tossed merrily. The President sank into a chair in the easiest
manner, and threw one leg over the arm of it. Then he noticed, with a quick
twinkle in his blue eyes, Hemming in the middle of the floor, erect and
unsmiling.

"Mr. Hemming," he said, "I want your respect, but none of that stiff-
backed ceremony between gentlemen. I am neither Roosevelt nor Albert
Edward. Even Morgan is a bigger man than I am, though I still hope. You
have been in the English army, and you like to have things starched; well,
so do I sometimes. Please fall into that chair."

Hemming blushed and sat down. The man was evidently crazy. "My
name is Tetson," said the President. He rang the bell and a native servant
entered.

"Thank you, a Scotch and soda," said Hemming.

"Ah, I knew it," laughed the other, "though I always take rye myself."

The servant bowed and retired.

"I see the illustrated weeklies of both New York and London,"
continued Tetson, "and I always look for your articles. I like them. I know
something about your family, also, Hemming. I have 'Burke's Landed
Gentry' and 'Who's Who' on my desk. You are a grandson of Sir Bertram
Hemming of Barracker."

"Yes," replied Hemming, both surprised and embarrassed.

"Well," said the President, "I have some blood in me, too. My mother's
grandmother was a Gostwycke. Did you notice the three stars and six
choughs?"

"I know the head of your house at home, Colonel Bruce-Gostwycke,

and another distinguished member of it in the colonies, Sir Henry Renton,"
replied Hemming. "But," he continued, briskly, twisting his moustache,
"you are something bigger than that here. Why do you hold this little half-
dead county family so high?"
 "My mother in New York taught me to," replied Tetson, "and then this
business is different. I did it, as you Englishmen say, off my own bat. A pile
of money, a lot of gall, a little knowledge of the weakness of men in office,
—this is all about it. Even now most of my friends think me a fool." He
gravely relit his yellow cigar. The reek of it was worse than jerked beef to
Hemming. "I will tell you my story some day, but now you want a shower-
bath and a change. Please consider yourself at home. Sudden friendships
may not be good form in England, but they are all right back here."

"Ah," said Hemming, "I have brushed about a bit; I'm not such a—so
English as I look."

Tetson turned to the servant: "Tell Smith to look after Mr. Hemming.
Smith is a handy man. You will find all kinds of cigarettes in his keeping,
and we shall dine at eight. If you feel hungry in the meantime, tell Smith."

He arose and shook hands. Hemming followed the servant, inwardly

wondering, outwardly calm. He had met many strange people in his
adventurous life, and had become accustomed to luck of every kind, but this
big President, with the yellow cigar, was beyond anything he had ever
dreamed.

"I am glad I was born with imagination, and have enjoyed the
enlightening society of O'Rourke in so many strange places," he thought.

Smith proved to be a clean-shaven man, all in white and brass buttons.

Hemming surveyed him with interest.

"I see that you are an Englishman, Smith," he said.

"No, sir," replied Smith, in faultless tones. "I was born on the Bowery.
But I have been in London, sir, yes, sir, with Mr. Tetson. We haven't always
lived in this 'ere 'ole."

It seemed to Hemming that the h's had been dropped with a certain
amount of effort on the man's part, and that his eyes twinkled in a quite
uncalled-for way. But it did not bother him now. Even a valet may be
allowed his joke.
 Soon he was enjoying the luxury of a shower-bath in a great, cool room,
standing by itself in a vineyard and rose garden. The shower fell about six
feet before it touched his head. The roof of the building was open to the
peak, and a subdued light, leaf-filtered, came down through a glass tile set
in among the earthen ones. The walls and floor were of white and blue tiles.
The bath was of marble, as large as an English billiard-table, and not unlike
the shallow basin of a fountain.

Cool and vigorous, Hemming stepped from the bath, replaced his eye-
glass, and lit a cigarette. Swathed in a white robe, with his feet in native
slippers, he unlocked the door and issued into the scented garden air. Smith
awaited him in the vine-covered alley, holding a "swizzle" on a silver tray.
He drained the glass, and, lifting up the hem of his robe, followed the valet
back to the dressing-room. Chameleons darted across his path, and through
the palms floated the ringing notes of a bugle-call.

"I found your razors and your brushes in the saddle-bags," announced
Smith, "and these shirts, sir, I bought, guessing at your size, and—"

"What is this?" interrupted Hemming, holding aloft a white jacket heavy

with gold.

"Mess jacket of our regiment, sir. The President would feel honoured if
you would wear it. And these trousers were sent in by one of the native
officers, with his compliments," replied the valet.

Hemming curtly intimated his readiness to dress. Smith closed the

shutters, turned on the lights, and examined a couple of razors.

Twenty minutes later, Herbert Hemming, in the mess uniform of a

colonel in the President of Pernamba's army, was ushered into the presence
of the family, and a certain Mr. Valentine Hicks.
 CHAPTER II.

THE SPORTING PRESIDENT

The President's name was Harris William Tetson. His wife had been
Mary Appleton, born of cultured parents in Philadelphia. She welcomed
Hemming in the most friendly manner. The third member of the family was
a tall girl, with a soft voice and an English accent. She shook hands with
Hemming, and he noticed that the pressure of her hand was firm and steady,
like that of a man's. She wore glasses. The light from the shaded candles
glowed warm on her white neck and arms. Hemming had not expected to
find any one like this in the interior of South America. He used to know
girls like her at home, and one in particular flashed into his memory with a
pang of bitterness. In his agitation, he almost overlooked the extended hand
of Mr. Valentine Hicks.

The dinner was of great length. A few of the dishes were American, but
most were of the country. Two dusky servants waited upon the diners. The
claret was to Hemming's taste, and, as he listened to Miss Tetson describe
an incident of her morning's ride, a feeling of rest and homeliness came to
him. A little wind stole in from the roses and fountains, and the man of wars
and letters, great dreams and unsung actions, saw, with wondering eyes, that
it loosened a red petal from the roses at her shoulder and dropped it upon
her white arm. He looked up sharply, and only the light of genial friendship
remained in the eyes that met those of Valentine Hicks. But Hicks looked
sulky; understanding came to the heart of Hemming. At last the dinner came
to an end, and Tetson dropped the subject of freight on sugar, and took up
the lighter one of real estate. Coffee was brought; no one listened to Tetson,
but he prosed on, his good-natured face turned toward the shadows in the
ceiling, a yellow cigar stuck jauntily in his mouth. Hemming was busy with
his own thoughts, wondering into what nest of lunatics his free-lancing had
brought him. He longed for O'Rourke's help. The girl drew something from
her bodice, and laid it before him. It was a cigarette-case.

"You may take one, if you do not bore us by looking shocked," she said.
 Hemming drew forth a cigarette, and lit it at the nearest candle. "As to
being shocked," he replied, "why, I used to know a girl who—" he stopped
suddenly and glanced down at his coffee. "Of course it is quite the thing
now," he added, in stilted tones.

Hicks refused a cigarette from the silver case, and moodily puffed at a
black native cigar. Mrs. Tetson did not smoke, but entertained the others
with a description of her first and only attempt at the recreation.

The little wind died away. Outside, the fountain splashed sleepily. The
blood-red petal fell from the girl's arm to the whiter cloth. A flame-
bewildered moth bungled into the President's coffee. Hemming's workaday
brain was lulled to repose, and now he was only Hemming the poet. He
looked into the eyes across the table. But he had lived so long with men,
and the foolish, evident affairs of generals and statesmen, that Miss Tetson's
glances were as weapons for which he knew no manual of defence. They
touched him more than he liked, awaking in his hitherto disciplined
memory a hundred fibres of broken dreams. And every fibre tingled like a
nerve with a sweetness sharp as pain,—and time swung back, and all the
healing of his long exile was undone.

When the ladies rose from the table, Mr. Tetson came over to Hemming
and nudged him confidentially. He looked very sly. "What d'ye say to a
game of billiards?" he whispered.

"Delighted," murmured Hemming, relieved that his strange host had not
suggested something worse.

"I like the game," continued Tetson, "but as Hicks is a damn fool at it, I
don't indulge very often. Hicks is too young, anyway,—a nice fellow, but
altogether too young for men to associate with. Trotting 'round with the
girls is more in his line."

"Really," remarked the newcomer, uneasily. He was not quite sure

whether or not Hicks had got out of ear-shot.

"Fact," said the President,—"cold truth. Marion can't play, either. I've
had Santosa up several times for a game, but he's too dashed respectful to
beat me. You'll not be that way, Hemming?"

"I should hope not," replied Hemming, absently, his eyes still turned
toward the door through which the rest of the party had vanished.

"What d'ye say to five dollars the game?" Tetson whispered. The
adventurer's heart sank, but he followed his host to the billiard-room with
an unconcerned air. They played until past midnight, the President in his
shirt-sleeves, with the yellow cigar smouldering always. A servant marked
for them, and another uncorked the soda-water. After the last shot had been
made, Valentine Hicks strolled in, with his hands in his pockets and his
brow clouded.

"Did the old man do you?" he inquired of Hemming.

The free-lance shook his head. "I took ten pounds away from him," he
said.

The secretary whistled.

CHAPTER III.

THE POST OF HONOUR.—THE SECRETARY'S

AFFAIR

Hemming awoke with a clear head, despite the President's whiskey, and
remembered, with satisfaction, the extra ten pounds. His windows were
wide open, and a cool dawn wind came in across the gardens. He threw
aside the sheet and went over to the middle window, and, finding that the
ledge extended to form a narrow balcony, stepped outside. Away to the
right, he could mark a bend of the river by the low-lying mist. He sniffed
the air. "There is fever in it," he said, and wondered how many kinds of a
fool Mr. Tetson was. He was sorry for the ladies. They did not look like the
kind of people to enjoy being shut away from the world in such a God-
forsaken hole as this. Why didn't the old ass start a town on the coast? he
asked himself. While engaged in these puzzling reflections, Smith rapped at
the door, and entered. He carried coffee, a few slices of dry toast, and a jug
of shaving-water.

"Will you ride this morning, sir?" he asked.

"Why, yes," replied Hemming, and said he would be shaved before

drinking his coffee. As the valet lathered his chin, he asked if the President
rode every morning.

"Not 'e, sir," replied the man, "but Miss Tetson does, and Mr. 'Icks."

Hemming found his well-worn riding-breeches brushed and folded, his

boots and spurs shining like the sun, and a new cotton tunic ready for him.
He looked his surprise at sight of the last article.

"You didn't give me any order, sir," explained the man, "but, bein' as I'm
a bit of a tilor myself, I thought as 'ow you wouldn't mind—"

Hemming interrupted him with uplifted hand.

"It was very kind of you," he said, "and I am sure it is an excellent fit.
See if you can't find a sovereign among that change on the table."

As he rode through the great gates, Hemming caught sight of Miss

Tetson along the road. At sound of his horse's hoofs, she turned in her
saddle and waved her hand. He touched his little white stallion into that
renowned sliding run that had made it famous in Pernambuco. They rode
together for over an hour. Hicks did not turn out that morning.

Mr. Valentine Hicks was young, and an American. Though he had been
born in Boston, he lacked something in breeding,—a very shadowy
something that would correct itself as life took him in hand. Though he had
been an undergraduate of Harvard University for two years, he displayed to
Hemming's mind a childish ignorance of men and books. No doubt he had
practised the arts of drop-kicking and tackling with distinction, for he was
big and well muscled. He was distantly connected with the Tetsons, and had
joined them in Pernamba soon after their arrival in the country, and two
years previous to the opening of this narrative, to act as Tetson's private
secretary. At first Mr. Hicks looked with suspicion upon the wandering
Englishman. He was in an unsettled frame of mind at the time, poor fellow.
He saw in Hemming a dangerous rival to his own monopoly of Miss Tetson.
Already the lady was talking about some sort of book the duffer had
written.

A few days after Hemming's arrival, the army, to the number of four
hundred rank and file and twenty-six officers, was drawn up for the
President's inspection. Hemming rode with Tetson, and the little brown
soldiers wondered at the frosty glitter of his eye-glass. His mount was the
same upon which he had entered the country,—a white, native-bred stallion,
the gift of one McPhey, a merchant in Pernambuco. Miss Tetson and Hicks,
each followed by a groom, trotted aimlessly about the waiting ranks, much
to Hemming's disgust. Tetson lit the inevitable yellow weed.

"What do you think of them?" he asked, waving his hand toward the
troops.

"They look to me as if they were stuffed with bran," answered the

Englishman, "and their formation is all wrong."

"Ah," said Tetson, sadly crestfallen.

Presently he touched Hemming's knee.

"If you will take them in hand,—the whole lopsided consignment, from
the muddy-faced colonel down,—why, I'll be your everlasting friend," he
said.

Hemming stared at them, pondering.

"It will mean enemies for me," he replied.

"No, I can answer for everything but their drill," said the other.