LATE in the afternoon of the day of his arrival in Buenaventura, in the cool recess of the deep veranda flanking the western side of the patio of the Hotel Mateo, John Stuart Webster sat in a wicker chair, cigar in mouth, elbows on knees, hands clasping a light Malacca stick, with the end of which he jabbed meditatively at a crack in the recently sprinkled tiled floor, as if punctuating each bitter thought that chased its predecessor through his somewhat numbed brain.

In Mr. Webster's own whimsical phraseology, his clock had been fixed, on the instant he recognized in the object of his youthful partner's adoration the same winsome woman he had enthroned in his own secret castle of love. From that precise second Billy's preserve was as safe from encroachment by his friend as would be a bale of Confederate currency in an armour-steel vault on the three-thousand-foot level of a water-filled mine. Unfortunately for Webster, however, while he knew himself fairly well, he was not aware of this at the time. Viewed in the light of calmer reflection, Mr. Webster was quite certain he had made a star-spangled monkey of himself.

He sought solace now in the fact that there had been mitigating circumstances. Throughout the entire journey from the steamer to the hotel, Billy had not once mentioned in its entirety the name of his adored one. In any Spanish-American country the name Dolores is not so uncommon as to excite suspicion; and Webster who had seen the mercurial William in and out of many a desperate love affair in the latter's brittle teens and early twenties, attached so little importance to this latest outbreak of the old disease that it did not occur to him to cross-examine Billy, after eliciting the information that the young man had not lost his heart to a local belle.

The knowledge that Billy's inamorata was an American girl served to clear what threatened to be a dark atmosphere, and so Webster promptly had dismissed the subject.

Any psychologist will tell one that it is quite possible for a person to dream, in the short space of a split second, of events which, if really consummated, would involve the passage of days, weeks, months, or even years! Now, Jack Webster was an extra fast thinker, asleep or awake, and in his mind's eye, as he sat there in the patio, he had a dreadful vision of himself with a delicate spray of lilies of the valley in the lapel of his dress coat, as he supported the malarial Billy to the altar, there to receive the promise of Dolores to love, honour, and obey until death them did part. As the said Billy's dearest friend and business associate—as the only logical single man available—the job was Webster's without a struggle. Diablo! Why did people persist in referring to such runners-up in the matrimonial handicap as best men, when at the very least calculation the groom was the winner?

That wedding party was the very least of the future events Mr. Webster's hectic imagination conjured up. In the course of time (he reflected), a baby would doubtless arrive to bless the Geary household. Godfather? John Stuart Webster, of course. And when the fruit of that happy union should be old enough to “ride horsey,” who but the family friend would be required to get down on all fours and accommodate the unconscious tyrant? Boy or girl, it would make no difference; whichever way the cat jumped, he would be known as Uncle Jack; Billy would drag him up to the house once or twice a week, and he would go for the sake of the baby; then they would make him stay all night, and Mrs. Billy would sigh and try to smile when she detected cigarette ashes on the chiffonier in the spare bedroom—infallible sign that there was a bachelor about. Besides, happily married women have a mania for marrying off their husband's bachelor friends, and Mrs. Billy might scout up a wife for him—a wife he didn't want—and——No, he would not be the family friend. Nobody should ever Uncle Jack him if he could help it, and the only way to avoid the honour would be to eschew the job of best man, to resolve, in the very beginning of things, to beware of entangling friendships. Thus, as in a glass darkly, John Stuart Webster, in one illuminating moment, saw his future, together with his sole avenue of escape.

All too forcibly Webster realized that Billy's bally-hooing must have created a favourable impression in Dolores's mind prior to the arrival of the victim; hence it seemed reasonable to presume that when she discovered in Billy Geary's Jack Webster her own soiled, ragged, bewhiskered, belligerent, battered knight, Sir John Stuart Webster of Death Valley, California, U. S. A., extreme measures would have to be taken instantly to save the said Webster from being spattered with a dear old friendship in the future—and a dear old friendship with Dolores Ruey was something he did not want, had never figured on, and shuddered at accepting. All things considered, it had appeared wise to him to challenge, politely but firmly, her suggestion that they had met.

Of course, Webster had not really thought all this at the time; he had felt it and acted entirely upon instinct. A little private cogitation, however, had served to straighten out his thinking apparatus and-convince him that he had acted hastily—wherefore he would (a still, small voice whispered) repent at leisure. Dolores had not pressed the question (he was grateful to her for that), and for as long as five minutes he had congratulated himself on his success in “putting it over” on her. Then he had caught her scrutinizing the knuckles of his right hand; following her glance, he had seen that the crests of two knuckles were slightly bluish and tender, as new skin has a habit of showing on tanned knuckles. With a sinking heart he had recalled how painfully and deeply he had lacerated those knuckles less than a month before on the strong white teeth of a fat male masher, and while the last ugly shred of evidence had dropped off a week before, nevertheless to the critical and discerning eye there was still faint testimony of that fateful joust—just sufficient to convict!

He had glanced at her swiftly; she had caught the glance and replied to it with the faintest possible gleam of mischievous challenge in her glorious brown orbs; whereupon John Stuart Webster had immediately done what every honest male biped has been doing since Adam told his first lie to Eve—blushed, and had drawn a little taunting smile for his pains.

As Solomon once remarked, the wicked flee when no man pursueth; and that smile had scarcely faded before John Stuart Webster had unanimously resolved upon the course he should have pursued in the first place. He would investigate Billy's mining concession immediately; provided it should prove worth while, he would finance it and put the property on a paying basis; after which he would see to it that the very best doctors in the city of Buenaventura should inform Billy, unofficially and in the strictest confidence, that if he desired to preserve the life of Senor Juan Webstaire, he should forthwith pack that rapidly disintegrating person off to a more salubrious climate.

Having made his decision, John Stuart Webster immediately took heart of hope and decided to lead trumps. He leaned over and slapped Billy Geary's knee affectionately.

“Well, Bill, you saffron-coloured old wreck, how long do you suppose it will take for you to pick up enough strength and courage to do some active mining? You're looking like food shot from guns.”

“Billy needs a vacation and a change of climate,” Dolores declared with that motherly conviction all womankind feels toward a sick man.

“So I do, Dolores,” Billy replied. “And I'm going to take it. Up there in the hills back of San Miguel de Padua, the ubiquitous mosquito is not, the climate is almost temperate—and 'tis there that I would be.”

“You can't start too soon to please me, Billy,” Webster declared. “I'm anxious to get that property on a paying basis, so I can get out of the country.”

“Why, Johnny,” the amazed Billy declared, “I thought you would stay and help run the mine.”

“Indeed! Well, why do you suppose I spent so much time teaching you how to run a mine, you young idiot, if not against just such a time as this? You found this concession and tied it up; I'll finance it and help you get everything started; but after that, I'm through, and you can manage it on salary and name the salary yourself. You have a greater interest in this country than I, William; and so with your kind permission we'll hike up to that concession tomorrow and give it the double-O; then, if I can O. K. the property, we'll cable for the machinery I ordered just before I left Denver, and get busy. We ought to have our first clean-up within ninety days. What kind of labour have you in this country? Anything worth while? If not, we'll have to import some white men that can do things.”

“Gosh, but you're in a hurry,” Billy murmured. He had been long enough in Sobrante to have acquired a touch of the manana spirit of the lowlands, and he disliked exceedingly the thought of having his courtship interrupted on a minute's notice.

“You know me, son. I'm a hustler on the job,” Webster reminded him brutally; “so the sooner you start, the sooner you can get back and accumulate more malaria. What accommodations have you up there?”

“None, Jack.”

“Then you had better get some, Billy. I think you told me we have to take horses at San Miguel de Padua to ride in to the mine.” Billy nodded. “Then you had better buy a tent and bedding for both of us, ship the stuff up to San Miguel de Padua, go up with it and engage horses, a good cook, and a couple of reliable mozos. When you have everything ready, telegraph me and I'll come up.”

“Why can't you come up with me?” Billy demanded.

“I have to see a man, and write some letters and send a cablegram and wait for an answer. I may have to loaf around here for two or three days. By the way, what did you do for that friend I sent to letter of introduction?”

“Exactly what you told me to do, Johnny”

“Where is he now?”

“At El Buen Amigo—the same place where I'm living.”

“All right. We'll not discuss business any more, because we have finished with the business in hand—at least I have, Billy. When you get back to your hostelry, you might tell my friend I shall expect him over to dine with me this evening, if he can manage it.”

For an hour they discussed various subjects; then Billy, declaring the siesta was almost over and the shops reopening as a consequence, announced his intention of doing his shopping, said good-bye to Dolores and Webster, and lugubriously departed on the business in hand.

“Why are you in such a hurry, Mr. Webster?” Dolores demanded. “You haven't been in Buenaventura six hours until you've managed to make me perfectly miserable.”

“I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to.”

“Didn't you know Billy Geary is my personal property?”

“No, but I suspected he might be. Bill's generous that way. He never hesitates to give himself to a charming woman.”

“This was a case of mutual self-defense. Billy hasn't any standing socially, you know. I believe he has been seen shooting craps—isn't that what you call it?—with gentlemen of more or less colour; then he appeared in public with me, minus a chaperon—”

“Fooey!”

“Likewise fiddlesticks! I should have had the entrÉe to the society of my father's old friends but for that; when old Mrs. General Maldonado lectured me (the dear, aristocratic soul conceived it to be her duty) on the impropriety of appearing on the Male-con with Billy and my guardian, who happens to be Billy's landlady, I tried to explain our American brand of democracy, but failed. So I haven't been invited anywhere since, and life would have been very dull without Billy. He has been a dear—and you have taken him away.”

Webster laughed. “Well, be patient, Miss Ruey, and I'll give him back to you with considerably more money than he will require for your joint comfort. Billy in financial distress is a joy forever, but Billy in a top hat and a frock coat on the sunny side of Easy Street will be absolutely irresistible.”

“He's a darling. Ever since my arrival he has dedicated his life to keeping me amused.” She rose. “Despite your wickedness, Mr. Webster, I am going to be good to you. Billy and I always have five o'clock tea here in the veranda. Would you care to come to my tea-party?”

“Nothing could give me greater pleasure,” he assured her.

She nodded brightly to him. “I'm going to run up to my room and put some powder on my nose,” she explained.

“But you'll return before five o'clock?” Webster was amazed to hear himself plead.

“You do not deserve such consideration, but I'll come back in about twenty minutes,” she answered and left him in the spot where we find him at the opening of this chapter, in pensive mood, jabbing his Malacca stick into a crack in the tiled floor.

Presently Webster shuddered. “Good heavens,” he soliloquized, “what a jackass-play I made when I declined to admit we had met before. What harm could I have accomplished by admitting it? I must be getting old, because I'm getting cowardly. I'm afraid of myself! When I met that girl last month, it was in a region that God forgot—and I was a human caterpillar, which a caterpillar is a hairy, lowly, unlovely thing that crawls until it is metamorphosed into a butterfly and flies. Following out the simile, I am now a human butterfly, not recognizable as the caterpillar to one woman out of ten million; yet she pegs me out at first. Gad, but she's a remarkable girl! And now I'm in for it. I've aroused her curiosity; and being a woman, she will not rest until she has fathomed the reason back of my extraordinary conduct. I think I'm going to be smeared with confusion. A spineless man like you, Johnny Webster, stands as much show in a battle of wits with that woman as a one-legged white man at a coon cakewalk. I'm afraid of her, and I'm afraid of myself. I'm glad I'm going up to the mine. I'll go as quickly as I can, and stay as long as I can.”

As Webster viewed the situation, his decision to see as little as possible of Dolores during his brief stay in Sobrante was a wise one. The less he saw of her (he told himself), the better for his peace of mind, for he was forty years old, and he had never loved before. For him this fever that burned in his blood, this delicious agony that throbbed in his heart—and all on the very ghost of provocation—were so many danger-signals, heralds of that grand passion which, coming to a man of forty, generally lasts him the remainder of his natural existence.

“This certainly beats the Dutch!” he murmured, and beyond the peradventure of a doubt, it did. He reflected that all of his life the impulses of his generous nature had been his undoing. In an excess of paternalism he had advised Billy to marry the girl and not permit himself to develop into a homeless, childless, loveless man such as Exhibit A, there present; following his natural inclination to play any game,' red or black, he had urged Billy to marry the girl immediately and had generously offered a liberal subsidy to make the marriage possible, for he disliked any interference in his plans to make those he loved happy. And now——

Webster was forced to admit he was afraid of himself. His was the rapidly disappearing code of the old unfettered West, that a man shall never betray his friend in thought, word, or deed. To John Stuart Webster any crime against friendship was the most heinous in all the calendar of human frailty; even to dream of slipping into Billy's shoes now would be monstrous; yet Webster knew he could not afford a test of strength between his ancient friendship for Billy and his masculine desire for a perfect mate. Remained then but one course:

“I must run like a road-runner,” was the way Webster expressed it.