“Wait,” Sir Charles commanded. A new form of punishment had suggested itself, in which justice was tempered with mercy. “Can you work one of your American lawn-mowers?” he asked. The young man laughed delightedly. “I never tried,” he said, “but I’ve seen it done.” “If you’ve been ill, it would be murder to put you on the shell road.” The Governor’s dignity relaxed into a smile. “I don’t desire international complications,” he said. “Sergeant, take this--him--to the kitchen, and tell Corporal Mallon to give him that American lawn-mowing machine. Possibly he may understand its mechanism. Mallon only cuts holes in the turf with it.” And he waved his hand in dismissal, and as the three men moved away he buried himself again in the perplexities of the dog-tax. Ten minutes later the deliberations of the Council were disturbed by a loud and persistent rattle, like the whir of a Maxim gun, which proved, on investigation, to arise from the American lawn-mower. The vagrant was propelling it triumphantly across the lawn, and gazing down at it with the same fond pride with which a nursemaid leans over the perambulator to observe her lusty and gurgling charge. The Councillors had departed, Sir Charles was thinking of breakfast, the Maxim-like lawn-mower still irritated the silent hush of midday, when from the waters of the inner harbor there came suddenly the sharp report of a saluting gun and the rush of falling anchor-chains. There was still a week to pass before the mail-steamer should arrive, and H. M. S. Partridge had departed for Nassau. Besides these ships, no other vessel had skirted the buoys of the bay in eight long smiling months. Mr. Clarges, the secretary, with an effort to appear calm, and the orderly, suffocated with the news, entered through separate doors at the same instant. The secretary filed his report first. “A yacht’s just anchored in the bay, Sir Charles,” he said. The orderly’s face fell. He looked aggrieved. “An American yacht,” he corrected. “And much larger than the Partridge,” continued the secretary. The orderly took a hasty glance back over his shoulder. “She has her launch lowered already, sir,” he said. Outside the whir of the lawn-mower continued undisturbed. Sir Charles reached for his marine-glass, and the three men hurried to the veranda. “It looks like a man-of-war,” said Sir Charles. “No,” he added, adjusting the binocular; “she’s a yacht. She flies the New York Yacht Club pennant--now she’s showing the owner’s absent pennant. He must have left in the launch. He’s coming ashore now.” “He seems in a bit of a hurry,” growled Mr. Clarges. “Those Americans always--” murmured Sir Charles from behind the binocular. He did not quite know that he enjoyed this sudden onslaught upon the privacy of his harbor and port. It was in itself annoying, and he was further annoyed to find that it could in the least degree disturb his poise.