"Commodore Billings has only one other vessel, and that is his flagship, the United States," added the señora. "Billings isn't likely to try to force the harbor with a single boat. The Yankee's mishap is our opportunity." "But the Cyane may float at highest tide which comes in a few days now." The señora then added significantly: "The United States can care little for this territory, judging from the weakness of their Pacific fleet. We must press this on our reluctant Admiral." "Yes, we'll have to coax him back into Monterey, as a mother leads a bashful child into company. But--that bumptious Barcelo! What has he to say of his conduct? California voted to come under our protection, he with the others. What, under heaven's name, prompted him?" "The real man was to the fore this morning, Captain. His blustering second self was submerged." "Second self submerged? Well! And did the cannonading in that rickety fort settle the dregs? My word! But what does he say of it all?" "That his honor demanded the resistance." "Then, why in the world didn't he think of that when he voted at the baile? Not bid us to gather our basket of eggs, only to throw a bowlder into the midst." "The Colonel's mind was on cribbage that night rather than on the province." "And the coming of the ships took his mind from cards to fighting," elevating his eyebrows. "Disappointed ambition did that." "Disappointed ambition? Señora, we gave him no assurance of office under our regime." "No, but he cherished the desire, and importuned you this morning to confirm it." "Well, he received his answer." The Captain's back stiffened. "Yes, Captain Farquharson, and he gave us his. The soldier of other days awoke." "I should say he did! I wish his popguns had shaken into Fairbanks some of that same spirit." The señora rose to go. "A message will bring me, Captain, when you get in touch with the Admiral." "I am expecting each moment to hear from him. At least he can use his guns to fire signals." Both Farquharson and Twickenham attended the lady to the street. The holiday appearance was gone from the capital. Many of the residents had taken themselves and their families out of the possible-danger zone. The others remained well within the shadow of their own rooftrees. Farquharson's horse took him to the high ground back of the city. Reaching perpendicularly from a half dozen hills were thin pillars of signal smoke. Touching the upper air drafts they bent horizonward, and drifted slowly into nothingness. "My smoke does its work all right, but Fairbanks's guns appear to be dumb. Drat the fellow!" His glasses pointed out to sea. For a moment, by chance, it rested on the town below. "Well, anyway Monterey will learn that every day isn't a fiesta day." He half chuckled. Again he directed his attention to the smoke now ascending in fresh volume as peons replenished the fires. Again he swept the ocean with his spyglass.