“They brought him past the late revolutionary head-quarters on the way to jail. I stood in the door. A policeman had him by each hand and foot, and they dragged him on his back through the grass like a turtle. Twice they stopped, and the odd policeman took another’s place while he rolled a cigarette. The great soldier of fortune turned his head and looked at me as they passed. I blushed, and lit another cigar. The procession passed on, and at ten minutes past twelve everybody had gone back to sleep again.

“In the afternoon the interpreter came around and smiled as he laid his hand on the big red jar we usually kept ice-water in.

“ ‘The ice-man didn’t call to-day,’ says I. ‘What’s the matter with everything, Sancho?’

“ ‘Ah, yes,’ says the liver-coloured linguist. ‘They just tell me in the town. Verree bad act that Señor O’Connor make fight with General Tumbalo. Yes. General Tumbalo great soldier and big mans.’

“ ‘What’ll they do to Mr. O’Connor?’ I asks.

“ ‘I talk little while presently with the Juez de la Paz—what you call Justice-with-the-peace,’ says Sancho. ‘He tell me it verree bad crime that one Señor Americano try kill General Tumbalo. He says they keep Señor O’Connor in jail six months; then have trial and shoot him with guns. Verree sorree.’

“ ‘How about this revolution that was to be pulled off?’ I asks.

“ ‘Oh,’ says this Sancho, ‘I think too hot weather for revolution. Revolution better in winter-time. Maybe so next winter. Quien sabe?’

“ ‘But the cannon went off,’ says I. ‘The signal was given.’

“ ‘That big sound?’ says Sancho, grinning. ‘The boiler in ice factory he blow up—BOOM! Wake everybody up from siesta. Verree sorree. No ice. Mucho hot day.’

“About sunset I went over to the jail, and they let me talk to O’Connor through the bars.

“ ‘What’s the news, Bowers?’ says he. ‘Have we taken the town? I’ve been expecting a rescue party all the afternoon. I haven’t heard any firing. Has any word been received from the capital?’

“ ‘Take it easy, Barney,’ says I. ‘I think there’s been a change of plans. There’s something more important to talk about. Have you any money?’

“ ‘I have not,’ says O’Connor. ‘The last dollar went to pay our hotel bill yesterday. Did our troops capture the custom-house? There ought to be plenty of government money there.’

“ ‘Segregate your mind from battles,’ says I. ‘I’ve been making inquiries. You’re to be shot six months from date for assault and battery. I’m expecting to receive fifty years at hard labour for vagrancy. All they furnish you while you’re a prisoner is water. You depend on your friends for food. I’ll see what I can do.’

“I went away and found a silver Chile dollar in an old vest of O’Connor’s. I took him some fried fish and rice for his supper. In the morning I went down to a lagoon and had a drink of water, and then went back to the jail. O’Connor had a porterhouse steak look in his eye.

“ ‘Barney,’ says I. ‘I’ve found a pond full of the finest kind of water. It’s the grandest, sweetest, purest water in the world. Say the word and I’ll go fetch you a bucket of it and you can throw this vile government stuff out of the window. I’ll do anything I can for a friend.’