The sixth of April, 1917, had caught him with a promising string of yearlings, each an aristocrat in the equine world of blue-bloods, each a hope for that most classic of American races. But he had thrown these upon the hands of a trainer and submerged his personal interests six hours after Congress declared war. At the same moment, indeed, all of Kentucky was turning to a greater tradition than that of "horses and whiskey"; and, by the time the draft became operative, the board of one county searched it from end to end without finding a man to register--because those in the fighting age, married or single, with dependents or otherwise, had previously rushed to the Colors. This, and the fact that his state, with three others, headed the nation with the highest percentage in physical examinations, added luster to the shield of his old Commonwealth--though he roundly insisted that 'twas not Kentucky's manhood, but her womanhood, who deserved the credit. After our cruise he was going back to the thoroughbreds, now within a few months of the required Derby age; and of course I had promised to be on hand at Churchill Downs when his colors flashed past the grandstand. Late in the afternoon the _Whim_ docked at Key West and, while Gates was ashore arranging for our clearance, Tommy and I ambled up town in search of daily papers. We were seated in the office of a rather seedy hotel when its proprietor approached, saying: "'Scuse me, gents,--are you from that boat down there?" I answered in the affirmative. "Going to Havana?" This, too, I admitted. "Well, there's a feller by the desk who missed the steamer, and he hoped--er----" "We'd take him over," Tommy supplied the halting words. "Where is he?" Turning, we easily distinguished the man by his timid glances in our direction. "Whiz-bang," Tommy whispered. "What the deuce would you call it, Jack?" Except for his age, that might have been sixty, he was most comical to look upon--in stature short and round, suggesting kinship with a gnome. His head seemed too large for the body, yet this might have been because it carried a plenteous shock of straw-colored hair, with mustache and beard to match. He was attired in "knickers" and pleated jacket, that looked as if he'd slept in them, and his fat legs were knock-kneed. On the floor about his feet lay almost every conceivable type and age of traveling bag, with the inevitable camera. "What's his name?" Tommy asked, not that that would have made any difference if his passport were in order. "Registered as 'Monsieur Dragot, of Roumania,'" the proprietor answered. "Roumania!" Tommy looked at me. "Let's go meet him, Jack."