The foolish boy did not realize that Ponce was at this time filled with fortune hunters of all sorts, men who had drifted in from the States and from other places, all anxious to see if American rule of the island would not give them some chance of bettering their condition. Many of the fortune hunters were hard working and honest, but there was another sort, gamblers and those who lived by their wits. These were the fellows to be met with at the cafés and other drinking resorts. Not far from where Hockley was standing stood a man of about forty, stout, and dressed in a checked suit of loud pattern. The man boasted of a profusion of heavy jewelry, and from his shirt bosom sparkled an immense “diamond”--of the sort which can be purchased in any large city for ten or twenty-five cents. The man wore patent leather boots, and his general appearance showed him to be the sport that he was. In an easy way he lounged up to Hockley. His eye had noted the youth’s roll of bills and he made up his mind that here was a possible victim. He put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a large dead bug. “Excuse me,” he said, politely and reached for Hockley’s collar. “It’s a pinching bug, I guess,” and he threw the bug on the floor and crushed it with his foot. Of course Hockley thanked the stranger for his kindness and then, as the latter was not drinking, asked him to have something. The invitation was promptly accepted, and in return the stranger also treated. “My name is Brown,” he said. “J. Rutherford Brown, and I am from Montana. I take it you are a newcomer in Ponce.” “I am,” answered Hockley, and told his name and mentioned the party of which he was a member. “It’s rather slow, traveling around with those other fellows,” he added. “I want to see some sport.” “Of course,” rejoined J. Rutherford Brown, enthusiastically. “I like a little sport myself.” More talk followed, and in the end it was agreed that the pair should go on a little trip of their own, down the seashore, to a resort where, according to the man from Montana, a “bang up, good, all around time” could be had. “I’ll show you some real life,” said J. Rutherford Brown. “Nothing like it anywhere.” They were soon on the way, in a carriage the man from Montana insisted on engaging. The route lay out of Ponce proper and along a seaside drive to where some enterprising American hotel men had erected several buildings, devoted partly to keeping boarders but mostly to gambling. The man from Montana had brought a flask of liquor with him, and he insisted on treating, so that by the time the resort he had in mind was reached poor Hockley was in anything but a clear state mentally. He felt strangely elated. “This is all right,” he repeated several times. “You’re a good fellow, Brown, a fine fellow. Glad we met. You’ll lose nothing on me, no, sir. I’ve got money, I have, and I mean to spend it.”