litary and social ornaments of public and private life.

As the band struck up, and the movement began, like a bird of
ill-omen the _Valhalla_, the swiftest steamship of the Vesuvius line,
glided into the harbour in plain view of the president and his train.
Of course, there was nothing menacing about its arrival--a business
firm does not go to war with a nation--but it reminded Senor
Espirition and others in those carriages that the Vesuvius Fruit
Company was undoubtedly carrying something up its sleeve for them.

By the time the van of the procession had reached the government
building, Captain Cronin, of the _Valhalla_, and Mr. Vincenti, member
of the Vesuvius Company, had landed and were pushing their way,
bluff, hearty and nonchalant, through the crowd on the narrow
sidewalk. Clad in white linen, big, debonair, with an air of
good-humoured authority, they made conspicuous figures among the
dark mass of unimposing Anchurians, as they penetrated to within a
few yards of the steps of the Casa Morena. Looking easily above the
heads of the crowd, they perceived another that towered above the
undersized natives. It was the fiery poll of Dicky Maloney against
the wall close by the lower step; and his broad, seductive grin
showed that he recognized their presence.

Dicky had attired himself becomingly for the festive occasion in a
well-fitting black suit. Pasa was close by his side, her head covered
with the ubiquitous black mantilla.

Mr. Vincenti looked at her attentively.

"Botticelli's Madonna," he remarked, gravely. "I wonder when she got
into the game. I don't like his getting tangled with the women. I
hoped he would keep away from them."

Captain Cronin's laugh almost drew attention from the parade.

"With that head of hair! Keep away from the women! And a Maloney!
Hasn't he got a license? But, nonsense aside, what do you think of
the prospects? It's a species of filibustering out of my line."

Vincenti glanced again at Dicky's head and smiled.

"_Rouge et noir_," he said. "There you have it. Make your play,
gentlemen. Our money is on the red."

"The lad's game," said Cronin, with a commending look at the tall,
easy figure by the steps. "But 'tis all like fly-by-night theatricals
to me. The talk's bigger than the stage; there's a smell of gasoline
in the air, and they're their own audience and scene-shifters."

They ceased talking, for General Pilar had descended from the first
carriage and had taken hi