“ ‘It was,’ says I. ‘I saw the joke all along. I’ll take another high-ball, if your honour don’t mind.’

“The next evening just at dark a couple of soldiers brought O’Connor down to the beach, where I was waiting under a coco-nut tree.

“ ‘Hist!’ says I in his ear: ‘Dona Isabel has arranged our escape. Not a word!’

“They rowed us in a boat out to a little steamer that smelled of table d’hôte salad oil and bone phosphate.

“The great, mellow, tropical moon was rising as we steamed away. O’Connor leaned on the taffrail or rear balcony of the ship and gazed silently at Guaya—at Buncoville-on-the-Beach.

“He had the red rose in his hand.

“ ‘She will wait,’ I heard him say. ‘Eyes like hers never deceive. But I shall see her again. Traitors cannot keep an O’Connor down for ever.

“ ‘You talk like a sequel,’ says I. ‘But in Volume II please omit the light-haired friend who totes the grub to the hero in his dungeon cell.’

“And thus reminiscing, we came back to New York.”

There was a little silence broken only by the familiar roar of the streets after Kansas Bill Bowers ceased talking.

“Did O’Connor ever go back?” I asked.

“He attained his heart’s desire,” said Bill. “Can you walk two blocks? I’ll show you.”

He led me eastward and down a flight of stairs that was covered by a curious-shaped, glowing, pagoda- like structure. Signs and figures on the tiled walls and supporting columns attested that we were in the Grand Central station of the subway. Hundreds of people were on the midway platform.

An up-town express dashed up and halted. It was crowded. There was a rush for it by a still larger crowd.

Towering above every one there a magnificent, broad-shouldered, athletic man leaped into the centre of the struggle. Men and women he seized in either hand and hurled them like manikins toward the open gates of the train.

Now and then some passenger with a shred of soul and self-respect left to him turned to offer remonstrances; but the blue uniform on the towering figure, the fierce and conquering glare of his eye and the ready impact of his ham-like hands glued together the lips that would have spoken complaint.

When the train was full, then he exhibited to all who might observe and admire his irresistible genius as a ruler of men. With his knees, with his elbows, with his shoulders, with his resistless feet he shoved, crushed, slammed, heaved, kicked, flung, pounded the overplus of passengers aboard. Then with the sounds of its wheels drowned by the moans, shrieks, prayers, and curses of its unfortunate crew, the express dashed away.

“That’s him. Ain’t he a wonder?” said Kansas Bill admiringly. “That tropical country wasn’t the place for him. I wish the distinguished traveller, writer, war correspondent, and playwright, Richmond Hobson Davis, could see him now. O’Connor ought to be dramatized.”