“Oh, it's none of my business,” exclaimed Keating, impatiently. “I'm just telling you what they're saying. Now, there's the Cuban refugees, for instance. No one knows what they're doing here, or whether they're real Cubans or Spaniards.” “Well, what of it?” “Why, the way you go round with them and visit them, it's no wonder they say you're a spy.” Channing stared incredulously, and then threw back his head and laughed with a shout of delight. “They don't, do they?” he asked. “Yes, they do, since you think it's so funny. If it hadn't been for us the day you went over to Guantanamo the marines would have had you arrested and court-martialed.” Channing's face clouded with a quick frown, “Oh,” he exclaimed, in a hurt voice, “they couldn't have thought that.” “Well, no,” Keating admitted grudgingly, “not after the fight, perhaps, but before that, when you were snooping around the camp like a Cuban after rations.” Channing recognized the picture with a laugh. “I do,” he said, “I do. But you should have had me court-martialed and shot; it would have made a good story. 'Our reporter shot as a spy, his last words were--' what were my last words, Keating?” Keating turned upon him with impatience, “But why do you do it?” he demanded. “Why don't you act like the rest of us? Why do you hang out with all those filibusters and runaway Cubans?” “They have been very kind to me,” said Channing, soberly. “They are a very courteous race, and they have ideas of hospitality which make the average New Yorker look like a dog hiding a bone.” “Oh, I suppose you mean that for us,” demanded Keating. “That's a slap at me, eh?” Channing gave a sigh and threw himself back against the trunk of the palm, with his hands clasped behind his head. “Oh, I wasn't thinking of you at all, Keating,” he said. “I don't consider you in the least.” He stretched himself and yawned wearily. “I've got troubles of my own.” He sat up suddenly and adjusted the objectionable hat to his head. “Why don't you wire the C. P.,” he asked, briskly, “and see if they don't want an extra man? It won't cost you anything to wire, and I need the job, and I haven't the money to cable.” “The Consolidated Press,” began Keating, jealously. “Why--well, you know what the Consolidated Press is? They don't want descriptive writers--and I've got all the men I need.” Keating rose and stood hesitating in some embarrassment. “I'll tell you what I could do, Channing,” he said, “I could take you on as a stoker, or steward, say. They're always deserting and mutinying; I have to carry a gun on me to make them mind. How would you like that? Forty dollars a month, and eat with the crew?” For a moment Channing stood in silence, smoothing the sand with the sole of his shoe. When he raised his head his face was flushing.