“Oh， heavens！” exclaimed the consul， hurriedly adjustinghis spectacles. “Are you a Yale man， too？ Were you inthat crowd？ I don’t seem to remember any one withred—any one named Maloney. Such a lot of college menseem to have misused their advantages. One of the bestmathematicians of the class of ’91 is selling lottery ticketsin Belize. A Cornell man dropped off here last month.
He was second steward on a guano boat. I’ll write to thedepartment if you like， Maloney. Or if there’s any tobacco，or newspa—”
“There’s nothing，” interrupted Dicky， shortly， “but this.
You go tell the captain of the Catarina that Dicky Maloneywants to see him as soon as he can conveniently come. Tellhim where I am. Hurry. That’s all.”
The consul， glad to be let off so easily， hurried away.
The captain of the Catarina， a stout man， Sicilian born，soon appeared， shoving， with little ceremony， through theguards to the jail door. The Vesuvius Fruit Company had ahabit of doing things that way in Anchuria.
“I am exceeding sorry—exceeding sorry，” said the captain，“to see this occur. I place myself at your service， Mr.
Maloney. What you need shall be furnished. Whatever yousay shall be done.”
Dicky looked at him unsmilingly. His red hair could notdetract from his attitude of severe dignity as he stood， talland calm， with his now grim mouth forming a horizontal line.
“Captain De Lucco， I believe I still have funds in thehands of your company—ample and personal funds.
I ordered a remittance last week. The money has notarrived. You know what is needed in this game. Money andmoney and more money. Why has it not been sent？”
“By the Cristobal，” replied De Lucco， gesticulating，“it was despatched. Where is the Cristobal？ Off CapeAntonio I spoke her with a broken shaft. A tramp coasterwas towing her back to New Orleans. I brought moneyashore thinking your need for it might not withstanddelay. In this envelope is one thousand dollars. There ismore if you need it， Mr. Maloney.”
“For the present it will suffice，” said Dicky， softening ashe crinkled the envelope and looked down at the half-inchthickness of smooth， dingy bills.
“The long green！” he said， gently， with a new reverencein his gaze. “Is there anything it will not buy， Captain？”
“I had three friends，” replied De Lucco， who was a bit ofa philosopher， “who had money. One of them speculatedin stocks and made ten million； another is in heaven， andthe third married a poor girl whom he loved.”
“The answer， then，” said Dicky， “is held by the Almighty，Wall Street， and Cupid. So， the question remains.”
“This，” queried the captain， including Dicky’s surroundingsin a significant gesture of his hand， “is it—it is notiit is notconnected with the business of your little shop？ There isno failure in your plans？”
“No， no，” said Dicky. “This is merely the result of a littleprivate affair of mine， a digression from the regular line ofbusiness. They say for a complete life a man must knowpoverty， love， and war. But they don’t go well together，capitan mio. No； there is no failure in my business. Thelittle shop is doing very well.”
When the captain had departed Dicky called the sergeantof the jail squad and asked：
“Am I preso by the military or by the civil authority？”
“Surely there is no martial law in effect now， senor.”
“Bueno. Now go or send to the alcalde， the Juez de laPaz and the Jefe de los Policios. Tell them I am preparedat once to satisfy the demands of justice.” A folded bill ofthe “long green” slid into the sergeant’s hand.
Then Dicky’s smile came back again， for he knewthat the hours of his captivity were numbered； and hehummed， in time with the sentry’s tread：
“They’re hanging men and women now， For lacking ofthe green.”
So， that night Dicky sat by the window of the roomover his shop an his little saint sat close by， working atsomething silken and dainty. Dicky was thoughtful andgrave. His red hair was in an unusual state of disorder.
Pasa’s fingers often ached to smooth and arrange it， butDicky would never allow it. He was poring， tonight， overa great litter of maps and books and papers on his tableuntil that perpendicular line came between his brows thatalways distressed Pasa. Presently she went and brought hishat， and stood with it until he looked up， inquiringly.
“It is sad for you here，” she explained. “Go out and drinkvino blanco. Come back when you get that smile you usedto wear. That is what I wish to see.”
Dicky laughed and threw down his papers. “The vinoblanco stage is past. It has served its turn. Perhaps， afterall， there was less entered my mouth and more my earsthan people thought. But， there will be no more maps orfrowns tonight. I promise you that. Come.”
They sat upon a reed silleta at the window and watchedthe quivering gleams from the lights of the Catarinareflected in the harbor.
Presently Pasa rippled out one of her infrequent chirrupsof audible laughter.
“I was thinking，” she began， anticipating Dicky’squestion， “of the foolish things girls have in their minds.
Because I went to school in the States I used to haveambitions. Nothing less than to be the president’s wifewould satisfy me. And， look， thou red picaroon， to whatobscure fate thou hast stolen me！”
“Don’t give up hope，” said Dicky， smiling. “More thanone Irishman has been the ruler of a South Americancountry. There was a dictator of Chili named O’Higgins.
Why not a President Maloney， of Anchuria？ Say the word，santita mia， and we’ll make the race.”
“No， no， no， thou red-haired， reckless one！” sighed Pasa；“I am content” —she laid her head against his arm— “here.”
