“By the _Cristobal_,” replied De Lucco, gesticulating, “it was despatched. Where is the _Cristobal_? Off Cape Antonio I spoke her with a broken shaft. A tramp coaster was towing her back to New Orleans. I brought money ashore thinking your need for it might not withstand delay. In this envelope is one thousand dollars. There is more if you need it, Mr. Maloney.” “For the present it will suffice,” said Dicky, softening as he crinkled the envelope and looked down at the half-inch thickness of smooth, dingy bills. “The long green!” he said, gently, with a new reverence in his gaze. “Is there anything it will not buy, Captain?” “I had three friends,” replied De Lucco, who was a bit of a philosopher, “who had money. One of them speculated in stocks and made ten million; another is in heaven, and the third married a poor girl whom he loved.” “The answer, then,” said Dicky, “is held by the Almighty, Wall Street and Cupid. So, the question remains.” “This,” queried the captain, including Dicky’s surroundings in a significant gesture of his hand, “is it—it is not—it is not connected with the business of your little shop? There is no failure in your plans?” “No, no,” said Dicky. “This is merely the result of a little private affair of mine, a digression from the regular line of business. They say for a complete life a man must know poverty, love and war. But they don’t go well together, _capitán mio_. No; there is no failure in my business. The little shop is doing very well.” When the captain had departed Dicky called the sergeant of the jail squad and asked: “Am I _preso_ by the military or by the civil authority?” “Surely there is no martial law in effect now, señor.” “_Bueno_. Now go or send to the alcalde, the _Jues de la Paz_ and the _Jefe de los Policios_. Tell them I am prepared at once to satisfy the demands of justice.” A folded bill of the “long green” slid into the sergeant’s hand. Then Dicky’s smile came back again, for he knew that the hours of his captivity were numbered; and he hummed, in time with the sentry’s tread: “They’re hanging men and women now, For lacking of the green.” So, that night Dicky sat by the window of the room over his shop and his little saint sat close by, working at something silken and dainty. Dicky was thoughtful and grave. His red hair was in an unusual state of disorder. Pasa’s fingers often ached to smooth and arrange it, but Dicky would never allow it. He was poring, to-night, over a great litter of maps and books and papers on his table until that perpendicular line came between his brows that always distressed Pasa. Presently she went and brought his hat, and stood with it until he looked up, inquiringly. “It is sad for you here,” she explained. “Go out and drink _vino blanco_. Come back when you get that smile you used to wear. That is what I wish to see.”