From an inside pocket he drew a tightly folded newspaper with much-worn edges, and indicated a paragraph. "Read that," said the saddler to royalty. The paragraph ran thus: His Highness Seyyid Feysal bin Turkee, Imam of Muskat, is one of the most progressive and enlightened rulers of the Old World. His stables contain more than a thousand horses of the purest Persian breeds. It is said that this powerful prince contemplates a visit to the United States at an early date. "There!" said Mr. Polk triumphantly. "My best saddle is as good as sold--the one with turquoises set in the rim of the cantle. Have you three dollars that you could loan me for a short time?" It happened that I had; and I did. If this should meet the eye of the Imam of Muskat, may it quicken his whim to visit the land of the free! Otherwise I fear that I shall be longer than a short time separated from my dollars three. VII HYGEIA AT THE SOLITO If you are knowing in the chronicles of the ring you will recall to mind an event in the early 'nineties when, for a minute and sundry odd seconds, a champion and a "would-be" faced each other on the alien side of an international river. So brief a conflict had rarely imposed upon the fair promise of true sport. The reporters made what they could of it, but, divested of padding, the action was sadly fugacious. The champion merely smote his victim, turned his back upon him, remarking, "I know what I done to dat stiff," and extended an arm like a ship's mast for his glove to be removed. Which accounts for a trainload of extremely disgusted gentlemen in an uproar of fancy vests and neck-wear being spilled from their pullmans in San Antonio in the early morning following the fight. Which also partly accounts for the unhappy predicament in which "Cricket" McGuire found himself as he tumbled from his car and sat upon the depot platform, torn by a spasm of that hollow, racking cough so familiar to San Antonian ears [33]. At that time, in the uncertain light of dawn, that way passed Curtis Raidler, the Nueces County cattleman--may his shadow never measure under six foot two. [FOOTNOTE 33: In the late 1800's and early 1900's western air was thought to be efficacious in healing tuberculosis (no drug therapy was then available), and many patients were sent to San Antonio. This theme appears in other O. Henry stories. There was a history of tuberculosis in O. Henry's family, and while he never had overt signs of the disease, he was allowed to go (or sent) to Texas at age 20 partly for his health.] The cattleman, out this early to catch the south-bound for his ranch station, stopped at the side of the distressed patron of sport, and spoke in the kindly drawl of his ilk and region, "Got it pretty bad, bud?"