WHEN Billy Geary could reorganize himself, as it were, after the shock incident to his discovery that the cablegram was not for him after all, he turned his attention to Mother Jenks. Without quite realizing why he did so, Billy decided that fear and not grief was at the bottom of the good creature's distress, and in his awkward, masculine way he placed his arm around Mother Jenks's shoulders, shook her gently, and bade her remember that chaos might come and go again, but he, the said William Geary, would remain her true and steadfast friend in any and all emergencies that might occur.

“Gor' bless yer heart, Willie,” Mother Jenks sniffled. “If this was only somethink I could hentrust to a man! But it ain't.”

“Well, suppose you tell me what it is and let me be the judge,” Billy suggested. “I haven't got one centavo to rub against the other, and on present form and past performances I'm the last man in the world to handle an affair between two women, but—I have a head on my shoulders, and nobody ever had reason to suspect that head of being empty. Perhaps, if you care to give me your confidence, I may be of service to you, Mother.”

“Willie,” his landlady wailed, “I dunno wot in 'ell yer ever goin' to think o' me w'en I tell ye wot I've been up to this past fifteen year.”

“Whatever you've been up to, Mother, it was a kind and charitable deed—of that much I am certain,” Billy replied loftily and—to his own surprise—sincerely.

“As Gord is my judge, Willie, it started out that w'y,” moaned Mother Jenks, and she squeezed Billy's hand as if from that yellow, shaking member she would draw aid and comfort. “'Er nyme is Dolores Ruey.”

“Any relation to the Ruey family of Buenaventura?”

“A first cousin, Willie. 'Er father was Don Ricardo Ruey, prÉsidente av this blasted 'ell on earth w'en me an' my sainted 'Enery first come to Buenaventura. 'E was too good for the yeller-bellied beggars; 'e tried to do somethink for them an' run the government on the square, an' they couldn't hunderstand, all along o' 'avin' been kicked an' cuffed by a long line of bloody rotters. It was Don Ricardo as gives my sainted 'Enery 'is commission as colonel in the hartillery.

“That was all very well, you know, Willie, only Don Ricardo didn't go far enough. If 'e'd only 'arkened to 'Enery's advice an' imported a lot o' bloomin' Tommies to serve 'Enery's guns, 'im an' 'Enery never would 'ave faced that firin'-squad. Many's the time 'Enery's said to me: ''Enrietta, me 'art's broke tryin' to myke gunners out o' them blackamoors Don Ricardo gives me to serve the screwguns. They've been born without a sense o' distance!' Gor' bless you, Willie, my sainted 'Enery 'ad no bloomin' use for a range-finder. 'E'd cast 'is eye over the ground an' then try a shot for distance. M'ybe'e'd be a bit short. 'A bit more elevation, amigos,' says 'Enery, an' tries again. This time 'e's a bit over it, m'ybe, but the third or fourth shot 'e 'as the range an' stays right on the target. But then, Willie, as 'Enery used to s'y to me: ''Enrietta, how in blazes can I serve six guns? How can a colonel of hartillery come down off 'is 'orse an do a gunner's work? It ain't dignified.'”

Billy nodded. He had heard that story so often in the past that he knew it by heart; from all he could learn the sainted 'Enery quite resembled a horse, in that he had room in his head for but one thought at a time. As a gunner-sergeant he was doubtless a loss to the British service, but as a colonel of So-brantean artillery he had tried to forget that once he had been a gunner-sergeant!

“You've 'eard me tell,” Mother Jenks continued, “'ow the rebels got 'arf a dozen Hamerican gunners—deserters from the navy—an' blew 'Enery's battery to bits, 'ow the Government forces fell back upon Buenaventura, an' as 'ow w'en the dorgs begun to wonder if they mightn't lose, they quit by the 'undreds an' went over to the rebel side, leavin' Don Ricardo an' 'Enery an' m'ybe fifty o' the gentry in the palace. In course they fought to a finish; 'ristocrats, all of them, they 'ad to die fightin' or facin' a firin'-squad.”

Again Billy nodded. He had heard the tale before, including the recital of the sainted 'Enery's gallant dash from the blazing palace in an effort to save Don Ricardo's only child, a girl of seven, and of his capture and subsequent execution.

“That ended the revolution,” Mother Jenks concluded. “But 'ere's somethink I've never told a livin' soul. Shortly before 'Enery was hexecuted, 'e told me where 'e'd 'id the youngster—in a culvert out on the Malecon; so I 'ired a four-wheeler an' went out an' rescued the pore lamb. She'd been 'idin' there thirty-six hours an' was well-nigh dead, an' as there ain't no tellin' what a mob o' these spiggoties 'll do when they're excited, I 'id 'er until the harrival o' the next fruit steamer, w'en I shipped 'er to New Orleans in care o' the stewardess. Hi 'ad 'er put in the Catholic convent there, for as 'Enery said: ''Enrietta, keep an eye on the little nipper, an' do yer damndest to see she's raised a lydy. 'Er father was a gentleman, an' you never want to forget 'e made you Mrs. Colonel Jenks.' So Hi've made a lydy out o' her, Willie: education, pianner lessons, paintin', singin', an' deportmint. After she graduated from the convent, I 'ad her take a course in the Uniwersity o' California—New Orleans wasn't 'ealthy for'er, an' she needed a chynge o' climate—an' for the last two years she's been teachin' in the 'igh school in Los Angeles.”

“And you haven't seen her in all these years?” Geary demanded.

“Not a look, Willie. She's been after me ever since she graduated from the convent to let her come 'ome an' wisit me, but Hi've told'er to wyte—that I'd be comin' soon to wisit her. An' now, s'help me, she won't wait no longer; she's cornin' to wisit me! Gor', Willie, she's on her w'y!”

“So this cablegram would indicate,” Geary observed. “Nevertheless, Mother, I'm at a loss to know why you should feel so cut up over the impending visit.”

There was real fear in Mother Jenks's tear-dimmed eyes. “I cawn't let'er see me,” she wailed. “I wasn't this w'y w'en my sainted 'Enery hentrusted the lamb to me; it wasn't until awfter they hexecuted 'Enery that I commenced to slip—an' now look at me. Look at me, Willie Geary; look at me, I s'y. Wot do yer see? Aw, don't tell me I'm young an' 'andsome, for I knows wot I am. I'm a frowsy, drunken, disreputable baggage, with no heducation or nothink. I've raised'er a lydy on account of 'er bein' born a lydy an' her father bein' good to me an my 'Enery—an' all along, hever since she learned to write me a letter, I've been 'Enrietta Wilkins to'er, an' Mother Jenks to every beach-combin' beggar in the Caribbean tropics. I've lied to'er, Willie. I've wrote 'er as 'ow 'er fawther, before 'e died, give me enough money to heducate'er like a lydy——”

Again Mother Jenks's grief overcame her. “An' wot lovin' letters my darlin' writes me,” she sobbed. “Calls me 'er lovin' Aunt 'Enrietta, an' me—Gor', Willie, I ain't respectable. She's comin' to see me—an' I cawn't let'er. She mustn't know 'ow I got the money for 'er heducation—sellin' 'ell-fire to a pack of rotten dorgs an' consortin' with the scum of this stinkin' 'ole! Oh, Willie, you've got to 'elp me. I cawn't 'ave'er comin' to El Buen Amigo to see me, an' I cawn't ruin 'er reputation by callin' on 'er in public at the 'Otel Mateo. Oh, Gor', Willie, Mother's come a cropper.”

Willie agreed with her. He patted the sinful gray head of his landlady and waited for her to regain her composure, the while he racked his agile brain for a feasible plan to fit the emergency. He realized it would be quite useless to argue Mother Jenks into the belief that she might pull herself together, so to speak, and run the risk of meeting with her ward; for the old woman had been born in the slums of London and raised a barmaid. She knew her place. She was not a lady and could never hope now to associate with one, even in a menial capacity, so there was an end to it! During the past fifteen years, the lower Mother Jenks had sunk in the social scale, even of free-and-easy old Buenaventura, the higher had she raised the one sweet note in her sordid life; not until the arrival of that cablegram did she realize that during those fifteen years she had been raising a barrier between her and the object of her stifled maternal yearnings—a barrier which, to her class-controlled mind, could never be swept away.

“She's been picturin' me in 'er mind all these years, Willie—picturin' a fraud,” wailed Mother Jenks. “If she sees me now, wot a shock she'll get, pore sweetheart—an' 'er the spittin' himage of a hangel. And oh, Willie, while she don't remember wot I looked like, think o' the shock if she meets me! In 'er lawst letter she said as 'ow I was the only hanchor she had in life. Ho, yes. A sweet-lookin' hanchor I am—an' Hi was 'opin' to die before she found hout. I've got a hanuerism in my 'eart, Willie, so the surgeon on the mail boat tells me, an' w'en I go, I'll go like—that!” Mother Jenks snapped her cigarette-stained fingers. “I 'ad the doctor come ashore the last time La Estrellita was in, on account o' 'im bein' a Hamerican an' up to snuff. An' Hi've got 'ardenin' of the harteries, too. I'm fifty-seven, Willie, an' since my sainted 'Enery passed away, I 'aven't been no bloomin' hangel.” She wrung her hands. “Oh, w'y in 'ell couldn't them harteries 'ave busted in time to save my lamb the 'umiliatin' knowledge that she's be'oldin' to the likes o' me for wot she's got—an' 'ow I got it for'er.”

Billy Geary had a bright idea. “Well,” he said, “why not die—temporarily—if you feel that way about it? You could come back from the grave after she's gone.”

But Mother Jenks shook her head. “No,” she declared. “While Dolores is self-supportin' now, still, if anythink 'appened an' she was to need 'elp, 'elp is somethin' no ghost can give. Think again, Willie. Gor', lad, w'ere's yer brains—an' you with your stummick filled to bustin' with a breakfast fit for a knight o' the bawth.”

“Well,” Billy countered thoughtfully, “apparently there's no way of heading her off before she takes the steamer at New Orleans, so we'll take it for granted she'll arrive here in due course. About the time she's due, suppose you run up to San Miguel de Padua for a couple of weeks and leave me to run El Buen Amigo in your absence. I'll play fair with you, Mother, so help me. I'll account for every centavo. I'll borrow some decent clothes from Leber the day the steamer gets in; then I'll go aboard and look over the passenger-list, and if she's aboard, I'll tell her you closed your house and started for California to visit her on the last northbound steamer—that her cablegram arrived just after you had started; that the cable company, knowing I am a friend of yours, showed me the message and that I took it upon myself to call and explain that as a result of your departure for the United States it will be useless for her to land—useless and dangerous, because cholera is raging in Buenaventura, although the port authorities deny it——”

“Willie,” Mother Jenks interrupted impressively, a ghost of her old debonair spirit shining through her tears, “yer don't owe me a bloomin' sixpence! Yer've syved the day, syved my reputation, an' syved a lydy's peace o' mind. Kiss me, yer precious byby.”

So Billy kissed her—gravely and with filial reverence, for he had long suspected Mother Jenks of being a pearl cast before swine, and now he was certain of it.

“I'll send her back to the United States and promise to cable you to await her there,” Billy continued. “Of course, we can't help it if you and the cablegram miss connections, and once the young lady is back in the United States, I dare say she'll have to stay there a couple of years before she can save the price of another sea voyage. And in the meantime she may marry——”

“Or that haneurism or my bally harteries may 'ave turned the trick before that,” Mother Jenks suggested candidly but joyously. “In course she'll be disappointed, but then disappointment never lays 'eavy on a young 'eart, Willie; an' bein' disappointed at not seein' a person you ain't really acquainted with ain't as bad as some disappointments.”

“I guess I know,” Billy Geary replied bitterly. “If that cablegram had only been for me! The only thing worth while I have done in my twenty-six years of life was to accumulate the best friend a man ever had—and lose him again because I was a fool and couldn't understand things without a blueprint! Mother, if my old partner could, by some miracle, manage to marry this Dolores girl, your arteries and your aneurisms might bust and be damned, but the girl would be safe.”

“M'ybe,” Mother Jenks suggested hopefully, “yer might fix it up for her w'en I'm gone. From all haccounts 'e's no-end a gentleman.”

“He's a he-man,” Mr. Geary declared with conviction. He sighed. “John Stuart Webster, wherever you are, please write or cable,” he murmured.