"Oh, go easy," expostulated O'Rourke, "you've only read one article of mine--the twenty-page result of five weeks' sugar-cane and observation." "It was remarkable stuff," mused Hemming. The younger man had the grace to bow. "You don't look like the kind of chap who is lavish with his praise," he said. Lighting a potent local cigar, he leaned back in his rickety chair, and shouted something in Spanish. The owner of the place appeared, rubbing his hands together and bowing. He was a fat, brown man, smelling of native cookery and native tobacco. O'Rourke talked, at some length, in Spanish, only a few words of which could Hemming understand. The proprietor waved his cigarette and gabbled back. Again O'Rourke took up the conversation, and this time his flow of mongrel Spanish was pricked out with bluff English oaths. Hemming asked what it was all about. O'Rourke gave himself up to laughter. "I have been trying to sell our mules," he said, at last, "but find that the market is already glutted." Hemming shook his head disconsolately. "I fail to see the joke," he said. "Mine host here informs me that a Cuban gentleman arrived shortly after daylight this morning," continued O'Rourke, "and sold a mule to the American consul." "Our mule," gasped the enlightened Englishman--then, leaping from his chair with a violence that caused the fat proprietor to take refuge behind a table, he cried that there was still a chance of overtaking the rascal. O'Rourke begged him to finish his claret in peace. "And don't do anything rash," he said, "for I warn you that if you catch him you'll have to keep him. I tremble even now, lest he should enter the door and reclaim me as his master." He blew a thin wisp of smoke toward the ceiling, and laughed comfortably. Then his glance lowered to his friend, who had reseated himself at the other side of the table. He saw amazement and consternation written large in Hemming's face. The landlord also looked thunderstruck, standing with his mouth open, his eyes fixed upon the door, and a dirty napkin idle in his hand. O'Rourke turned and followed their enraptured gaze--and behold, clothed in new trousers and gaudy poncho, John Nunez bowing on the threshold. For long seconds a painful silence held the inmates of the eating-house in thrall. The delinquent broke it with a stream of talk. He pointed heavenward; he touched his breast with his fingers; he spread his arms wide, and all the while he gabbled in Spanish. Tears ran down his dusky cheeks. O'Rourke regained his easy attitude, and heard the story to the end. He kept his gaze upon the Cuban's face, and not once did the Cuban meet it. At last the fellow stopped talking, and stood before his master with his sullen, tear-stained face half-hidden in a fold of his gay blanket. "Well?" inquired Hemming.