He ransacked Europe for decorations, employing policy, money and
intrigue to cajole the orders he coveted from kings and rulers. On
state occasions his breast was covered from shoulder to shoulder with
crosses, stars, golden roses, medals and ribbons. It was said that
the man who could contrive for him a new decoration, or invent some
new method of extolling his greatness, might plunge a hand deep into
the treasury.

This was the man upon whom Billy Keogh had his eye. The gentle
buccaneer had observed the rain of favors that fell upon those who
ministered to the president's vanities, and he did not deem it his
duty to hoist his umbrella against the scattering drops of liquid
fortune.

In a few weeks the new consul arrived, releasing Keogh from his
temporary duties. He was a young man fresh from college, who lived
for botany alone. The consulate at Coralio gave him the opportunity
to study tropical flora. He wore smoked glasses, and carried a green
umbrella. He filled the cool, back porch of the consulate with plants
and specimens so that space for a bottle and chair was not to be
found. Keogh gazed on him sadly, but without rancour, and began to
pack his gripsack. For his new plot against stagnation along the
Spanish Main required of him a voyage overseas.

Soon came the _Karlsefin_ again--she of the trampish habits--gleaning
a cargo of cocoanuts for a speculative descent upon the New York
market. Keogh was booked for a passage on the return trip.

"Yes, I'm going to New York," he explained to the group of his
countrymen that had gathered on the beach to see him off. "But I'll
be back before you miss me. I've undertaken the art education of this
piebald country, and I'm not the man to desert it while it's in the
early throes of tintypes."

With this mysterious declaration of his intentions Keogh boarded the
_Karlsefin_.

Ten days later, shivering, with the collar of his thin coat turned
high, he burst into the studio of Carolus White at the top of a tall
building in Tenth Street, New York City.

Carolus White was smoking a cigarette and frying sausages over an oil
stove. He was only twenty-three, and had noble theories about art.

"Billy Keogh!" exclaimed White, extending the hand that was not busy
with the frying pan. "From what part of the uncivilized world, I
wonder!"

"Hello, Carry," said Keogh, dragging forward a stool, and holding his
fingers close to the stove. "I'm glad I found you so soon. I've