When M. T. Pate rushed from the hotel in Callao, he had been rendered frantic by the ridicule of the merciless wags by whom he was surrounded. Blinded with passion, he was hurrying along, not knowing nor caring whither he went, when he ran over a buzzard in the street and fell flat on his face. Springing to his feet, he struck the bird a heavy blow with a stick which laid it dead in the gutter. These industrious scavengers are protected by law in the Peruvian cities, and hardly had Pate committed this outrage when he was seized by a couple of soldiers and carried to the calaboose. For many weeks Pate pined in prison, living on exceedingly low diet. He was plunged in the depths of despair, and supposed that he would have to end his days in captivity as an expiation for his offense. He could see but a single gleam of hope. An earthquake might come and shake down the walls of his prison, and he might thus effect his escape. But there appeared to be a dearth of earthquakes in the country just at that time. Pate had often, during a long drought, read the prayers in church for rain, and he now used the same formula and prayed for an earthquake. But no convulsion of nature occurred, although he would often put his ear to the floor, and eagerly listen for the rumbling sounds which usually precede a subterranean commotion. One afternoon an old American tar was put in the calaboose for riotous conduct while drunk. The sailor lay on the floor, in the same room with Pate, and slept soundly until about the middle of the night, when he woke up sobered and in the full possession of his faculties. Pate was on his knees, loudly and fervently praying for an earthquake. The old salt sat on the floor and listened until he began to comprehend, when he became much excited. "Avast, you lubber!" he cried out, springing to his feet. Pate paid no attention. He was so absorbed in his devotions as not to be conscious of exterior surroundings. "Stop your yarn!" said the sailor. Pate heeded him not. "Shiver my timbers!" shouted the old tar, fiercely, "if I don't plug up your dead-lights!" And he seized Pate by the collar and thrust his huge fist under his nose. "Murder!" cried Pate. "Murder, and bloody murder, it will be, if you don't stop spinning your yarn," said the sailor. "Who are you? who are you?" cried Pate. "Belong to the ship Fredonia," said the tar. "Did you kill a buzzard?" said Pate. "No; I got drunk. They'll let me out in the morning. I've been here before." "Will you get out? I'll have to stay here all my life." "What sort of a cruise have you been on that brought you into this port? What did they put you here for?" "I killed a buzzard." "If you'd killed a man they wouldn't have minded it much. But they think more of their blasted buzzards than they do of their shovel-hats." "Will I ever get out?" cried Pate. "Oh, that I could get a letter to my friends!" "Are you an American man?" "I am! I am! And in a dirty prison for killing a buzzard!"