THERE was a clatter and tramp of feet in the street outside. The door of the patio flew open with a bang.

“Take your dirty hands off me!” Bang, went the door again, and there in the patio stood a little squat Irishman with red hair and stubby black clay pipe in his mouth.

“What's the matter?” I called to him, for his hair was rumpled and his coat torn, with rough handling. He ran to me, and the crowd, the simple-hearted criminality of Portate, gathered around us.

“Hoosh!” he said. “It's an insurrection, sor. I'm arristed for distributin' insidjus proclamations in backwoods Casthilian, an' the guards has taken me last copy, tellin' how The Mayor has Tyrannously Arristed the Electric Lights! Release Misther Kirby or Down wid the Mayor! Shall Portate be Darkened? Citizens, Rise!' Oh, hivens, me entherprise and adventures!”

“Comb down your red hair,” I said, “and go on.”

“It's auburrn, sor!”

“It's fine shade of gold, you Hibernian Apollo! Who in time are you?”

“I come in yesterday evenin' on the Violetta”

“What!”

“Yes, sor. Me name's Hagan, but Sadler's gone away from me, an' I have the trimbles in me bones.”

“Well, I'll be shot! Are they all right?”

“Sure, they are.”

“Go ahead then.”

“Well, sor, me an' Sadler an' the docther, we got ashore as soon as we could. 'Twas in the early evenin', an' thim two went off somewhere for somewhat; and me, I went down Bolivar Street to an old haunt of me mimories, to see what was there. An' who should come out of the caffy but Chepa. Sure, he's your foreman now, but onct he was me frind an' dispised acquaintance in this city of sinfulness many a year ago. 'Red hair!' says he wid a shriek. 'Auburrn!' says I, 'ye grizzly Dago.' An' wid that we ombraced. 'Och, Jimmie!' he says, 'you're the man I'm wantin',' he says. 'Where's Sadler?' 'I dunno,' I says, 'not just now. He's around the town.' 'Tis happy he'll be then this night,' he says, 'for society an' politics,' he says, 'an' populations an' powers 'll be playin' discordant chunes,' he says. 'Come on,' he says, 'an' help me ungear thim dynamos.' Wid that we started for the plant, an' me not knowin' at all the divilmint that was goin', an' we come to the plant, and Chepa set the dynamos buzzin' like bees, an' thin sat down an' explained his language wid information. 'At nine o'clock,' he says, 'I shut 'em off and disables the machinery,' an' he did. Then we come back through the town by the back streets. There was wicked rage in the heart of Portate. She wint to bed in the dark, and had bad dreams. But we come down to the docks an' hired a boat out to the Violetta, and we told the missus and the young la-ady about it. After awhile comes out the boys in the gig wid a letther from the docther sayin' him an' Sadler was gone up counthry on a night thrain in pursuit of South-American archylogy. 'Kit,' says the missus, readin' it out to the young la-ady, 'Kit seems to have this city in a barrel, an' he's plugged the shpigot, an' where in the barrel he is I dunno,' he says, 'for we've been to the electric plant and we've banged on the doorway of his house, an' nothin' happened, an' Portate is tumultuous and dark. Wherefore,' he says, 'I argue he ain't expectin' company to-night, an' me an' Sadler is goin' up counthry afther archylogy,' he says, 'to be back to-morry.' 'Goodness!' says the missis, an' she an' the young la-ady went down for the night, an' me an' Chepa passed it cool an' balmy. This mornin' the missis sent us ashore for news. But oh, the sights of the ragin' city! Oh, the throuble an' combustion of it! A crowd of men grabs us at the corner. 'Gintlemen,' says Chepa, 'respected sehores, 'tis the wickedness of the Jefe,' he says, 'a-spindin' on gilt furniture the hard-earned taxes of the people, collected by the tax collector,' he says, 'wid the shweat of his fatness. For Sehor Kirby,' he says, 'to the great sorrow of himself, havin' run out of electricity, is unable to buy more on account of the avarice and theft of the beast of a thief of a Jefe,' he says, and they thought so too. By and by comes the news of yourself arristed and put in jail. 'Jimmie,' says Chepa, 'it will not do.' I says 'It will not.' An' we broke away an' went back to the Violetta. An very interested they were, sor, the missis an' the young la-ady, askin' questions, an' then a-studyin' an' a-lookin' at ache other. 'Well,' says the missis, 'I wish Doctor Ulswater hadn't gone, but it's the Jefe's fault an' not Mr. Kirby's, an' I think you were quite right, Mr. Chepa,' she says, 'to tell the people so. But of coorse you could only tell a few,' she says, 'an' I suppose most of thim think it's Mr. Kirby's to blame, an' I think we ought to stop that,' she says, 'so I think we'd bet-ther have a lot of bills printed to explain.'—'Hooroar!' says the young la-ady, jumpin' up and wavin' herself in the atmosphere. 'I'll write it!' An' wid that she grabs Chepa an' plumps down wid him on the carpet, an' what wid thim two composin' inflaminous proclamations, an' me a shmokin' me poipe wid terror in me bosim an' me face smeared over wid insidjous calm, an' the missis a lookin' off at Portate, wid her knittin' in her hand and statesmanship an' revolution in her eye, 'twas a ould-shtyle Fenian meetin', sor, an' down wid the landlords! 'It's hot,' says Chepa, manin' the proclamation. 'There's no foreign governmint to rescue Chepa wid diplomacy. They'll hang me,' he says, 'an' 'tis no matther. Behold me, senora! I am game.' 'You must stay here,' says the missis. 'Jimmie will have the bills printed and posted.' 'Oh, senora!' says Chepa, lookin' hurt. 'Of coorse you're not afraid,' she says—an' I wished she knew that I was—'but it'd be bad for you to be arristed,' she says, 'an' besides there's another reason.' It lies in the nature of things, sor, to do what the missis says. There's no help for it. I came into Portate alone, wid myself, an' gold in me trousers pocket which I changes to the barbarious paper money of the counthry an' scuttles off to a printer. 'Set it up!' I says, showin' barbarious money. 'Print it!' An' he did so, wid the fear of consequences an' the lust of avarice. But, sor, ye should have seen the amazin' innocence an' wrath of the populace, a-jumpin' all over the Plaza, a-howlin', a-wavin' proclamations an' blackguardin' the Mayor for arristin' the lights. Prisintly comes a line of soldiers wrigglin' through the crowd, an' one of 'em raps me over the head with the butt of his gun, out of the mistherable shpite of him, an' they takes me red-handed in the disthribution of proclamations, an' up we goes, up the steps of the City Hall, before the public was onto the insult to its liberties. An' oh, the terrible language of the Mayor, a-kickin' over chairs in the corridor! 'To prisin,' says he, tearin' his hair tremendjous. 'Ye'll be shot in the mornin',' says he. Then they took me out the back alley, an' down here sudden, bein' punched in the back wid the butt ends of the rifles of a misfit soldiery, an' thim's the facts.”