WEBSTER reached New Orleans at the end of the first leg of his journey, to discover that in the matter of sailings he was not fortunate. He was one day late to board the Atlanta—a banana boat of the Consolidated Fruit Company's line plying regularly between New Orleans and that company's depots at Limon and San Buenaventura—which necessitated a wait of three days for the steamer La Estrellita of the Caribbean Mail Line, running to Caracas and way ports.

This delay annoyed him, for he was the kind of man who, once he has made up his mind to embark upon a venture, is impatient to be up and doing. Accordingly, he decided to visit the ticket office of the Caribbean Mail Line immediately and avoid the rush in case the travel should be heavy—in which event a delay of an hour might be fatal—for should he be informed that the space on La Estrellita was entirely sold out, the knowledge would, he knew, set his reason tottering on its throne.

The steamship office was in Canal Street. Webster arrived there during the luncheon hour, due to which fact he found but one clerk on duty at the ticket counter when he entered. This clerk was waiting on two well-dressed and palpably low-bred sons of the tropics, to whom he had just displayed a passenger list which the two were scanning critically. Their interest in it was so obvious that unconsciously Webster peeped over their shoulders (no difficult task for one of his stature) and discovered it to be the passenger list of the steamer La Estrellita. They were conversing together in low tones and Webster, who had spent many years of his life following his profession in Mexico, recognized their speech as the bastard Spanish of the peon.

The clerk glanced up, caught Webster's eye and nodded to indicate that he would attend him directly.

“No hurry, old timer,” Webster told him, with the bluff, free-and-easy democracy of the man of broad, unkenned horizons. “Just save a place on that passenger list for my John Hancock when our friends here have finished with it.”

He sat down in the long wall seat and waited until the pair, having completed their scrutiny of the list, turned to pass out. He glanced at them casually.

Theirs were faces ordinary enough south of the Rio Grande but not likely to pass unnoticed in a northern crowd. One was a tall thin man whose bloodshot eyes were inclined to “pop” a little—infallible evidence in the Latin-American that he is drinking more hard liquor than is good for him. He was smooth-shaven, of pronounced Indian type, and wore considerable expensive jewellery.

His companion was plainly of the same racial stock, although Webster suspected him of a slight admixture of negro blood. He was short, stocky, and aggressive looking; like his companion, bejewelled and possessed of a thin, carefully cultivated mous, tache that seemed to consist of about nineteen hairs on one side and twenty on the other. Evidently once upon a time, as the story books have it, he had been shot. Webster suspected a Mauser bullet, fired at long range. It had entered his right cheek, just below the malar, ranged downward through his mouth and out through a fold of flabby flesh under his left jowl. It must have been a frightful wound, but it had healed well except at the point of entrance, where it had a tendency to pucker considerably, thus drawing the man's eyelid down on his cheek and giving to that visual organ something of the appearance of a bulldog's.

Both men observed Webster's swift but intense appraisal of them, and he of the puckered eye—perhaps because he was the cynosure of that scrutiny and morbidly sensitive of his facial disfigurement—replied with a cool, sullen stare that was almost belligerent.

Webster gazed after them whimsically as he approached the counter.

“I'd hate to wake up some night and find that hombre with the puckered eye leaning over me. To what branch of the genus Greaser do those two horse-thieves belong?” he queried.

“Central America, I take it,” the clerk answered. “They appear interested in the names of passengers bound for Caribbean ports. Looking for a friend, I suppose.”

“Hardly. I speak their kind of Spanish and a peon doesn't refer to his friends in the free-and-easy language these fellows employed. By the way,” he continued, suddenly apprehensive, “do you get much of that paraqueet travel on your line?”

“About 80 per cent, of it is off colour, sir.” Webster pondered the 80-per-cent, probability of being berthed in the same stateroom with one of these people and the prospect was as revolting to him as would be an uninvited negro guest at the dining table of a southern family. He had all a Westerner's hatred for the breed.

“Well, I want a ticket to San Buenaventura,” he informed the clerk, “but I don't relish the idea of a Greaser in the same stateroom with Me. I wonder if you couldn't manage to fix me up with a stateroom all to myself, or at least arrange it so that in the event of company I'll draw a white man. I can stand a slovenly white man where a clean peon would be unbearable, although—peon or Caballero—these people are apt to be tarred with the same stick. I don't care for any of them in mine.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot guarantee you absolute privacy nor any kind of white man. It's pretty mixed travel to all Central American ports.”

“How many berths in your first-class staterooms?”

“Two.”

Webster smiled brightly. He had found a way out of the difficulty. “I'll buy 'em both, son,” he announced.

“I cannot sell you an entire stateroom, sir. It's against the orders of the company to sell two berths to one man. The travel is pretty brisk and it's hardly fair to the public, you know.”

“Well, suppose I buy one ticket for myself and the other for—well, for my valet, let us say. Of course,” he added brightly, “I haven't engaged the valet yet and even should I do so I wouldn't be at all surprised if the rascal missed the boat!”

The clerk glanced at him with a slow smile, and pondered. “Well,” he said presently, “it's a poor rule that hasn't its exception, and when it comes to killing cats, strangulation with a butter-ball isn't the only method. If you care to buy a ticket for your valet, I'm sure I shouldn't worry whether or not he catches the boat. If my records show that the space is sold of two men and the purser collects two tickets, I think you'll be pretty safe from intrusion.”

“To the harassed traveller,” said Mr. Webster, “a meeting with a gentleman of your penetration is as refreshing as a canteen of cool water in the desert. Shoot!” and he produced a handful of gold.

“I will—provided I have one empty cabin,” and the clerk turned from the counter to consult his record of berths already sold and others reserved but not paid for. Presently he faced Webster at the counter.

“The outlook is very blue,” he announced. “Every name on the passenger list has a preponderance of vowels in it. However, I have one berth in No. 34 reserved by a gentleman who was to call for it by two o'clock to-day.” He looked at his watch. “It is now a quarter of one. If the reservation isn't claimed promptly at two o'clock I shall cancel it and reserve for you both berths in that room. If you will be good enough to leave me your name and address I will telephone you after that hour. In the meantime, you may make reservation of the other berth in the same stateroom. I feel very confident that the reservation in No. 34 will not be called for, Mr.—er——”

“Webster—John S. Webster. You are very kind, indeed. I'm at the St. Charles.”

“Be there at a quarter after two, Mr. Webster, and you will hear from me promptly on the minute,” the clerk assured him; whereupon Webster paid for one berth and departed for his hotel with a feeling that the clerk's report would be favourable.

True to his promise, at precisely a quarter after two, the ticket clerk telephoned Webster at his hotel that the berth in No. 34 had been cancelled and the entire stateroom was now at his disposal.

“If you will be good enough to give me the name of your valet,” he concluded, “it will not be necessary for you to come down for your tickets, Mr. Webster. I will fill in both names on my passenger manifest and send the tickets to your hotel by messenger immediately. You can then sign the tickets—I have already signed them as witness—and pay the messenger.”

“Well, I haven't engaged that valet as yet,” Webster began, but the other interrupted cheerfully: “What's the odds? He's going to miss the boat, anyhow. All I require is a name.”

“That ought to be a simple request to comply with. Let me see! If I had a valet I think I should want him to be called Andrew or Martin.”

“I read a book once, Mr. Webster, and the valet in that book was called Andrew Bowers.”

“Bowers is a fine old English name. Let us seek no further. Andrew Bowers it is.”

“Thank you. All you have to do then is to remember to sign the name, Andrew Bowers, to one ticket. Don't forget your valet's name now, and ball everything up,” and the clerk hung up, laughing.

Half an hour later a boy from the steamship office arrived with the tickets, collected for them, and departed, leaving John Stuart Webster singularly pleased with himself and at peace with the entire world.