But this man’s breach of the law in New York was his mildest sin, as we came later to hear. He had many robberies to his credit and a murder or two. For his latest crime he was now wanted by the French consul and military authorities, but being an American citizen they could not lay hold of him except with the consent of the American consul, who happened to be a German, and, disliking the French, would let them do nothing that he could help. Rodrigues (this was the name of the Spanish _caballero_) had defended his place against the Arab attack with the aid only of his servants. The little arsenal which he kept (he was a fancier of good guns and pistols) had been of splendid service. It is said that when the fight was over forty dead Moors lay before the hotel door, half-a-dozen horses were in Rodrigues’s stable, and bundles of plunder in his yard. It was a case of looting the looters. On tinned foods taken from the shops of other Europeans (whom he had plundered when the Arabs were gone from the town) he was now feeding the host of newspaper correspondents who crowded his establishment. But we were not to be looted likewise by this genial fellow-countryman, and our salvation lay at hand as we bade him _au revoir_. Leaving the Hôtel Américain we turned into the main street, and proceeding towards the Hôtel Continental came upon a party of French officers, who had just hailed and were shaking hands with a man unmistakably either English or American. Beside him, even in their military uniforms the Frenchmen were insignificant. The other man was tall and splendid and brave, as the writer of Western fiction would say. He wore a khaki jacket, white duck riding trousers, English leggings, and a cowboy hat; and over one shoulder were slung a rifle, a kodak, and a water-bottle. To lend reality to the figure--he was dusty, and his collar was undone; and as we passed the group we heard him tell the Frenchmen he had just returned from the ‘outer lines.’ How often had we seen the picture of this man, the war correspondent of fiction and of kodak advertisements! Both Weare and I were glad to meet the old familiar friend in the flesh and wanted to speak to him, but we refrained for fear he might be English and might resent American effrontery. As we passed him, however, we noticed his name across the flat side of the water-bottle. In big, bold letters was the inscription: ‘Captain Squall, Special War Correspondent of “The Morning Press.”’ This was characteristic of Squall, as we came to know; neither ‘special correspondent’ nor ‘war correspondent’ was a sufficient title for him; he must be ‘special war correspondent.’ We had heard of Squall at Tangier and thought we could stop and speak to him, and accordingly waited a moment till he had left the Frenchmen. ‘How-do-you-do, Captain?’ I said. ‘I have an introduction to you in my bag from the correspondent of your paper at Tangier.’