“Quinby and I,” explained Hedges, puffing through the slippery sand, “are looking out along the coast for some investments. We’ve just come up from Concepción and Valparaiso and Lima. The captain of this subsidized ferry boat told us there was some good picking around here in silver mines. So we got off. Now, where is that café, Merriam? Oh, in this portable soda water pavilion?” Leaving Quinby at the bar, Hedges drew Merriam aside. “Now, what does this mean?” he said, with gruff kindness. “Are you sulking about that fool row we had?” “I thought,” stammered Merriam—“I heard—they told me you were—that I had—” “Well, you didn’t, and I’m not,” said Hedges. “That fool young ambulance surgeon told Wade I was a candidate for a coffin just because I’d got tired and quit breathing. I laid up in a private hospital for a month; but here I am, kicking as hard as ever. Wade and I tried to find you, but couldn’t. Now, Merriam, shake hands and forget it all. I was as much to blame as you were; and the shot really did me good—I came out of the hospital as healthy and fit as a cab horse. Come on; that drink’s waiting.” “Old man,” said Merriam, brokenly, “I don’t know how to thank you—I—well, you know—” “Oh, forget it,” boomed Hedges. “Quinby’ll die of thirst if we don’t join him.” Bibb was sitting on the shady side of the gallery waiting for the eleven-o’clock breakfast. Presently Merriam came out and joined him. His eye was strangely bright. “Bibb, my boy,” said he, slowly waving his hand, “do you see those mountains and that sea and sky and sunshine?—they’re mine, Bibbsy—all mine.” “You go in,” said Bibb, “and take eight grains of quinine, right away. It won’t do in this climate for a man to get to thinking he’s Rockefeller, or James O’Neill either.” Inside, the purser was untying a great roll of newspapers, many of them weeks old, gathered in the lower ports by the _Pajaro_ to be distributed at casual stopping-places. Thus do the beneficent voyagers scatter news and entertainment among the prisoners of sea and mountains. Tio Pancho, the hotel proprietor, set his great silver-rimmed _anteojos_ upon his nose and divided the papers into a number of smaller rolls. A barefooted _muchacho_ dashed in, desiring the post of messenger. “_Bien venido_,” said Tio Pancho. “This to Señora Conant; that to el Doctor S-S-Schlegel—_Dios_! what a name to say!—that to Señor Davis—one for Don Alberto. These two for the _Casa de Huespedes_, _Numero 6_, _en la calle de las Buenas Gracias_. And say to them all, _muchacho_, that the _Pajaro_ sails for Panama at three this afternoon. If any have letters to send by the post, let them come quickly, that they may first pass through the _correo_.” Mrs. Conant received her roll of newspapers at four o’clock. The boy was late in delivering them, because he had been deflected from his duty by an iguana that crossed his path and to which he immediately gave chase. But it made no hardship, for she had no letters to send.