There was no way by which the Governor could test the popular will in the matter, except through his secretary, Mr. Clarges, who, at the cricket-match between the local eleven and the officers and crew of H. M. S. Partridge, had been informed by the other owners of several fox-terriers that, in their opinion, the tax was a piece of “condemned tommy-rot.” From this the Governor judged that it would not prove a popular measure. As he paced the veranda, drawing deliberately on his cigar, and considering to which party he should give the weight of his final support, his thoughts were disturbed by the approach of a stranger, who advanced along the gravel walk, guarded on either side by one of the local constabulary. The stranger was young and of poor appearance. His bare feet were bound in a pair of the rope sandals worn by the natives, his clothing was of torn and soiled drill, and he fanned his face nonchalantly with a sombrero of battered and shapeless felt. Sir Charles halted in his walk, and holding his cigar behind his back, addressed himself to the sergeant. “A vagrant?” he asked. The words seemed to bear some amusing significance to the stranger, for his face lit instantly with a sweet and charming smile, and while he turned to hear the sergeant’s reply, he regarded him with a kindly and affectionate interest. “Yes, your Excellency.” The Governor turned to the prisoner. “Do you know the law of this colony regarding vagrants?” “I do not,” the young man answered. His tone was politely curious, and suggested that he would like to be further informed as to the local peculiarities of a foreign country. “After two weeks’ residence,” the Governor recited, impressively, “all able-bodied persons who will not work are put to work or deported. Have you made any effort to find work?” Again the young man smiled charmingly. He shook his head and laughed. “Oh dear no,” he said. The laugh struck the Governor as impertinent. “Then you must leave by the next mail-steamer, if you have any money to pay your passage, or, if you have no money, you must go to work on the roads. Have you any money?” “If I had, I wouldn’t--be a vagrant,” the young man answered. His voice was low and singularly sweet. It seemed to suit the indolence of his attitude and the lazy, inconsequent smile. “I called on our consular agent here,” he continued, leisurely, “to write a letter home for money, but he was disgracefully drunk, so I used his official note-paper to write to the State Department about him, instead.” The Governor’s deepest interest was aroused. The American consular agent was one of the severest trials he was forced to endure. “You are not a British subject, then? Ah, I see--and--er--your representative was unable to assist you?” “He was drunk,” the young man repeated, placidly. “He has been drunk ever since I have been here, particularly in the mornings.”