s while we marked the count upon his rear
with cues. He was a vile shot, I remembered, so we took to recording his
misses, and Angus Jones said this was the most wonderful system of
marking ever invented, and taught him free of all charge. I was greatly
moved at the generosity of Jones in this matter and embraced him. It
seemed to bespeak so grand and forgiving a character.

The fourth bottle had probably been broached by the time we raided the
Commercial Association and flushed three steamship agents. One we set to
shoveling coal on the public highway and the other two marched around
him singing the monarchist anthem--I was the prompter in that piece. I
have an idea it was a success, for the roofs passed the word, and we
could hear them howling half a mile back. They do not like the
monarchist anthem in Funchal.

Certainly the basket was quite light when parley was called at last.
This historic event took place under the high stone tower that is known
as Benger's Folly where certain eminent citizens had taken refuge, and I
have reason to think the overtures came from no less a person than his
excellency the governor himself. "What do we want?" echoed Angus Jones
in reply to that hail. "What do we want?"

He leaned ever so slightly on the massive shoulder of Thomas--I was in
support with the basket--and let a voluptuous eye run from end to end of
the water front. So the Spanish conquistador may have looked who took
the place in the sixteenth century. And so he had a right to look on
subject territory.

"We are fed; we have drunk--gloriously have we drunk," said Angus Jones.
"Honor is now restored, and to these people the conviction of their
native and essential shim--sim, pardon me, simplishity." He waved a
hand. "We require to be helped on our way. For cabin passage in yonder
vessel, tax free and duly paid, we will remit the rest. Let it be
peach," said Angus Jones. "Yes, let us have peash!"

And as he said so it was.

I have a vague recollection of seeing Thomas behind his bars again
somewhere and of parting from him, with tears, I think; then of the
rusted side of a ship and its blessed planks under my feet--for a time.
One last picture lingers ere all dissolves....

* * * * *

They were even then hoisting anchor aboard our Siamese tramp, but the
vessel had swung her stern shoreward not fifty feet off the quay. Angus
Jones stood alone by the taffrail in full view of the stricke