"Excuse me, Miss," said he, "but us fellows made up something we wanted to say to you, and they picked on me to put it over, because they said I got the tongue of a ready speaker. But it ain't much to say. It's just this. Without wishing to pry into your private affairs at all we heard that you was up against it like. I mean that you had undertaken the job of putting a gang of crooks where they belong. Well, what we want to say is, if we could help we'd jump at the chance, that's all. If you need a man or a gang to back you up, try us. Us and our boats is yours to command!" Amy was touched. Her eyes were misty as she replied simply: "Thank you, Ginger, and all of you. It's sweet to find friends. I shan't forget you." After they had filed out Amy sat down on the green sofa and started her tale. "My real name is Amy Wilmot. My father, Gerald Wilmot, was United States minister to Managuay. Managuay, as you know, is a small Central American republic. During my father's term of office there he married a Managuayan lady, Emilia Bareda, and I was their only child. My mother died while I was still an infant. My father brought me up with the assistance of a succession of servants more or less inefficient. Of course I was very badly brought up, but I was happy. "My father was a generous, frank and liberal-minded man, and all the men in Managuay like him were attracted to our house. Young as I was I can still remember the good talk around our table--especially since I have begun to try to think for myself. My uncle Tony, Antonio Bareda, was such a man as my father, and they were the closest of friends. Uncle Tony was continually at our house. He understood children and I idolized him. "Well, the climate of Managuay is an unhealthy one except for natives, and when I was eleven years old a fever carried off my kind, wise father. I was too young of course to realize what his loss meant to me. Of course I grieved as children grieve, but like a child I soon adapted myself to my new surroundings. "These were very different from what I had known up to that time. Since my father had no near relatives, I was adopted by my mother's cousin, Señora de Socotra, who taught me to call her mamma. She is a dear kind soul too, and I love her dearly. The only thing I have against her is that she gave me a Spanish name, while I was still too young to realize what I was giving up. She called me Amèlie de Socotra, by which name of course I have always been known. But I mean to take my own name back now. "Mamma is devotedly attached to her husband, and actually after living with him for twenty years has no idea but that he is a model of all the virtues. But she is simplicity itself. I have noticed since I have become suspicious of him myself that Mamma will believe any tale, however wild, that he tells her. It is his discovery that I am not so gullible that has made him suddenly suspicious of me.