"'I INTEND RESIGNING MY COMMISSION, SIR'" ([See page 15])

HEMMING
THE ADVENTURER

BY

THEODORE ROBERTS.

AUTHOR OF "BROTHERS OF PERIL," ETC.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. G. LEARNED.

LONDON:
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED,
1906.

A Dedication
TO ONE WHO BROUGHT
THE COLOUR OF REALITY BACK
TO LIFE AT A TIME WHEN LIFE WAS LIKE
A PICTURE, AND THE FACES OF MY FRIENDS WERE
LESS REAL THAN THE FACES OF MY DREAMING. TO ONE
WHOSE SWEET INTEREST IN MY STORIES MADE IT SEEM WORTH
WHILE TO RECALL MY AIMLESS ADVENTURES. TO ONE WHOSE
GENTLE MINISTRATIONS TURNED A WEARY SICKNESS INTO A
HOLIDAY, AND WIPED OUT THE MEMORY OF PAST PAIN. TO ONE
WHO TAUGHT ME THAT ROMANCE LIES NOT ALL IN THE MAKING
OF NEW LANDFALLS AND THE SIGHTING OF NEW
MOUNTAIN-TOPS. TO HER WHO READS THIS PAGE WITH
UNDERSTANDING, AND A QUICKENING OF
THE PULSE, THIS STORY OF HEMMING
THE ADVENTURER IS
LOVINGLY DEDICATED

1903 T. R.

CONTENTS

PART ONE

CHAPTER

I. [Captain Hemming Faces a Change of Life]
II. [Hemming Meets with a Strange Reception]
III. [Hemming Visits the Manager of the Syndicate]
IV. [The Advent of Mr. O'Rourke and His Servant]
V. [The Adventurers Dispense With Mr. Nunez]
VI. [Hemming Hears of the Villain]
VII. [An Elderly Champion]
VIII. [Hemming Undertakes a Dignified Work]
IX. [O'Rourke Tells a Sad Story]
X. [Lieutenant Ellis Is Concerned]
XI. [Hemming Draws His Back Pay]

PART TWO

I. [The Unsuspected City]
II. [The Sporting President]
III. [The Post of Honour.—The Secretary's Affair]
IV. [The Thing That Happened]
V. [Chance in Pernambuco]
VI. [Cuddlehead Decides on an Adventure]
VII. [Hemming Learns Something about His Army]
VIII. [Captain Santosa Visits His Superior Officer]
IX. [Mr. Cuddlehead Arrives]
X. [The First Shot]
XI. [The Colonel's Ultimatum]
XII. [O'Rourke to the Rescue]
XIII. [The Unexpected Sailor]
XIV. [The Attack]
XV. [Rest in Pernambuco]

PART THREE

I. [The Real Girl]
II. [A New Restlessness]
III. [A Rolling Stone]
IV. ["The Dear, Dear Witchery of Song"]
V. [An Uncanny Guest]
VI. [The Bachelor Uncle to the Rescue]
VII. [Hemming Receives His Sailing Orders from a Master Not to Be Denied]
VIII. [Hemming Would Put His Dreams To The Proof]
IX. [To Part No More]
X. [A New Command]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

["'I intend resigning my commission, sir'"] ([See page 15]) Frontispiece

["Several days later Miss Travers wrote to Hemming"]

["The door came in with a rending, sidelong fall"]

["'I have decided, sir, to stick to scribbling'"]

["At that moment Molly tripped into the room"]

PART ONE

HEMMING,
THE ADVENTURER

CHAPTER I.
CAPTAIN HEMMING FACES A CHANGE OF LIFE

The colonel sat in Captain Hemming's room. He looked about at the snug furnishings, and the photographs above the chimney. Even the row of polished spurs on their rack against the wall, and the line of well-shone boots and shoes at the head of the bed, could not do away with the homelike air of the room.

"Even in Dublin, a man with something over his pay can make himself comfortable, in seven months," mused the colonel. Being a bachelor himself, he liked the way things were arranged. For instance, the small book-shelf above the bed, with its freight of well-thumbed volumes, tobacco-jar, and match-box, appealed to him. He selected a cigarette from an open box at his elbow, and, lighting it, sighed contentedly. In reaching back to deposit the burnt match on an ash-tray, his hand upset a stack of folded papers and spilled them on the floor.

"The devil!" he exclaimed, and, doubling up, scooped for the nearest.

What's this, he wondered, as a yard or two of narrow, printed matter unrolled from his hand. He was a stranger to galley-proofs. He looked at the top of the upper strip, and saw, in heavy, black type, "The Colonel and the Lady." Then he settled back in the chair, crossed his thin, tight-clad legs, and smoothed the proof. Ten minutes later Hemming's orderly entered and mended the fire; but the colonel did not look up. The orderly retired. The clock on the chimneypiece ticked away the seconds all unheeded. The shadows lengthened at the windows, and at last the colonel straightened himself, and replaced the papers. He smiled.

"Sly old Hemming," he remarked, and laughed outright. "He shouldn't show us up like that," he said, "but it's a good yarn. Wonder if he will lend it to me to finish to-night?"

Just then Captain Hemming entered.

By this time the room was dusk with the twilight of early spring. He did not sight the colonel immediately, and, going over to a wardrobe, hung up his cap and greatcoat. He was in "undress" uniform—his blue serge tunic somewhat shabby, but his riding-breeches and high, spurred boots smart and new. The colonel coughed.

Though the captain's greeting was prompt and polite, it did not hide his surprise.

"I dropped in to speak about Tomilson—he seems in a bad way," the other explained. Tomilson was a full private—in both rank and condition.

Hemming advised leniency in this case. He had a soft heart for the men, in spite of his abrupt diction, and the uncompromising glare of his single eye-glass. When the commanding officer was about to take his departure, the captain asked him to wait a minute. His manner was as cool as ever.

"I intend resigning my commission, sir. I decided on the course some days ago, and meant to speak to you after parade to-morrow," he said.

"Bless me," exclaimed the colonel, "what the devil have you been up to?"

The other smiled,—a somewhat thin smile,—and replied that he had not disgraced the regiment, or done anything low. "But I'm down to my pay again," he exclaimed, "and I can't live on that."

"Why not? Have you ever tried?" inquired the colonel.

Hemming did not answer the question, but waited, with his hands behind his back, and his face toward the fast darkening windows.

"I'm sorry for it," said the older man, at last. "You are a good officer,—forgive my saying so,—and—and the mess swears by you. I hope you have suffered no serious misfortune."

The captain laughed wanly.

"It seems rather serious to me," he replied. "I've come to the end of my little pile."

"The second, I believe," remarked the colonel.

Hemming nodded.

"It beats me," exclaimed his superior, and looked as if an explanation would be welcome.

"You would understand, sir, if you were as big a fool as I have been. Good nature, without common business sense to guide it, gets away with more money than viciousness."

He stared gravely at the reclining colonel. "At last I have learned my lesson," he concluded, "and it is this—put not your trust in cads."

The colonel laughed uneasily, and quitted the room without asking for the loan of the proof-sheets. Hemming sat down in the vacated chair. His face now wore a pleasanter expression.

"Thank God, I'm not afraid of work," he said, "but may the devil fly away with that cad Penthouse. How can a blood-relation of Molly's be such a sneaking, mealy-mouthed little cur? Now, while I am lying here winged, thanks to my childish generosity and his beastliness, he is skipping around in London, on two months' leave. Herbert Hemming is done with the ways of lambs and idiots." Jumping to his feet, he went to the door and shouted for his man. A few minutes later, with the candles glowing softly on sword and photograph, spur and book-back, he dressed for dinner.

That night the mess found him more talkative than usual. But he left early, for his own quarters. The groups in the anteroom thinned gradually, as the men went about their various concerns, some to their rooms, and some to the town, and one across the square to the colonel's quarters, where the colonel's youngest sister awaited him. This sister was a thorn in the colonel's flesh. She would not let him smoke his pipe in the drawing-room (though he was sure she smoked cigarettes there), and he heartily hoped his junior major would marry her. The junior major hoped so too, and, with this hope in his breast, took his departure, leaving Spalding, a subaltern, and Major O'Grady alone by the piano.

O'Grady balanced his smouldering cigarette on the edge of the music-stand, and strummed a few erratic bars.

"The other chaps must have suspected something," said Spalding. "I wondered why they all cleared out."

"What are ye doing here, ye impudent young divil? Should think ye'd skeedaddle down-town, now that Penthouse is in London, and ye've got a chance with the lady," cried the stout Irish major. The subaltern's boyish face took on an ugly expression.

"Penthouse—that bounder," he sneered.

"I must admit that his manners are a trifle airy," returned O'Grady, "but the same can be truly said of most subs of this glorious age."

"I'm not objecting to his manners, major, and I'm not defending my own," said Spalding. "I'm simply naming him a bounder."

O'Grady took up his cigarette, and turned his back on the keyboard.

"What are ye kicking about?" he inquired.

"Well," replied Spalding, anxiously examining the ceiling, "I happen to know things about him."

"Ye're a gossip, me boy, that's what ye are," cried the major, "and of all contemptible things, the worst is a male gossip. What do ye happen to know about him, me boy?"

A faint smile played across the lieutenant's upturned face; but the impatient major did not notice it.

"To begin with, he's some sort of cousin to a Miss Travers, an English girl whom Hemming is in love with," said Spalding.

"Then you object to him on purely social grounds," interrupted the Irishman.

"Oh, shut up, and let me tell my tale. Social grounds be shot—Miss Travers is daughter of a lord bish-hop. Penthouse is son of a baronet. What I'm getting at is that good old Hemming, just because this chap is related to his girl, has looked after him like a dry-nurse for more than a year. That is right enough. But—and this is not known by any one but me—Hemming backed a lot of his paper, and for the last two months he has been paying the piper. Once upon a time, in the memory of man, Hemming had some money, but I'll eat my helmet if he has any now."

"How d'ye know all this?" asked O'Grady, letting his fat cigarette smoulder its life away unheeded. Spalding touched his eyes lightly with his finger-tips.

"Saw," he said.

The major gave vent to his feelings in muttered oaths, all the while keeping an observant eye upon his companion.

"I'll wager now that Hemming has some good old Irish blood in him," he remarked.

"Why do you think that?" asked Spalding, deliberately yawning.

"His generosity leads me to think so. There are other officers of infantry regiments who'd be better off to-day, but for their kind hearts and Irish blood." The major sighed windily as he made this statement.

"Methinks you mean Irish whiskey," retorted Spalding. With dignity O'Grady arose from the piano-stool.

"I'll not listen to any more of your low gossip," he said, and started for the door, in a hurry to carry the news to any one he might find at home.

"You needn't mention my name, sir," called Spalding, over his shoulder. His superior officer left the room without deigning a reply.

CHAPTER II.
HEMMING MEETS WITH A STRANGE RECEPTION

Herbert Hemming sat alone in his room, while his brother officers sought their pleasure in divers companies. His writing-table was drawn close to the fire. His scarlet mess-jacket made a vivid spot of colour, in the softly illuminated room. He was busily occupied with the proofs of "The Colonel and the Lady," when his man rapped at the door and entered.

"Nothing more," said the captain, without looking up. The soldier saluted, but did not go. Presently his master's attention was awakened by the uneasy creaking of his boots.

"Well, what do you want?"

"Me mother is very ill, sir."

"I'm not a doctor, Malloy."

"I wasn't thinkin' of insultin' you, sir."

Hemming sighed, and laid down his pen.

"I have found you a satisfactory servant," he said, "also a frightful liar."

"I must confess to you, sir," replied the man, "that I was lyin' last month about me father,—he's been dead as St. Pathrick this seven year,—but to-night I'm tellin' you the truth, sir, so help me—"

"Never mind that," interrupted Hemming.

Malloy was silent.

"So your mother is very ill?" continued the captain.

"Yes, sir,—locomotive attacks, sir."

"And poor, I take it?"

"Yes, sir,—four bob a week."

Hemming felt in his pockets and drew out a sovereign.

"Sorry it's so little," he said, "but if you give me her address to-morrow I'll call and see her."

"God bless you, sir," said the man. He took the money, and hesitated beside the table.

Hemming glanced at him inquiringly.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, it beats me how you knows when I'm lyin' and when I'm tellin' the truth," exclaimed the orderly.

"I'm learning things by experience. Good night, Malloy."

Alone again, Hemming made short work of his proofs. After sealing them into a yellow envelope, and inscribing thereon the address of a big New York weekly (whose editor had proved partial to his sketches and stories of "doings" in the Imperial Army), he produced some of the regimental stationery and began a letter to Miss Travers. It was no easy undertaking—the writing of this particular letter. After struggling for some minutes with the first sentence, he leaned back in his chair and fell into retrospection. His age was now twenty-nine years. He had done with Sandhurst at twenty-one, and had been in the army ever since; had seen more than his share of foreign service, and two seasons of border-scrapping in Northern India. He had gone ahead in his chosen profession, despite a weakness for reading poetry in bed and writing articles descriptive of people and things he knew. During his father's lifetime his allowance (though he was but a third son) was ample, and even enabled him to play polo, and shortly after his father's death an almost unknown great-aunt had left him a modest little sum—not much of a fortune, but a very comfortable possession. Two years previous to his present troubles he had fallen in love. So had the girl. A year ago he had proposed and been accepted. He had, for her sake, fathered a reckless, impecunious subaltern, by name Penthouse, lending him money and endorsing his notes, and now he was stripped bare to his pay. If he had never met the girl, things would not look so bad, for certain papers and magazines had begun to buy his stories. By sitting up to it and working hard, he felt that he could make more as a writer than as a soldier. But the idea of giving up the girl sent a sickening chill through his heart. Surely she would understand, and cheer him up the new path. But it was with a heavy heart that he returned to the writing of the letter. Slowly, doggedly he went through with it, telling of his loss of fortune, through helping a person whom he would not name, and of his hopes and plans for the future. He told of the adventurous position he had accepted, but the day before, with an American Newspaper Syndicate—a billet that would necessitate his almost immediate departure for Greece. The pain of his disappointment crept, all unnoticed by him, into the style of his writing, and made the whole letter sound strained and unnatural.

By the time the letter was sealed and ready for the mail, Hemming was tired out. He flung himself on the bed, unhooked the collar of his mess-jacket (they hooked at the collar a few years ago), and, lighting his pipe, lay for some time in unhappy half-dreaming. He knew, for, at the last, young Penthouse had not been careful to hide his cloven foot, that he might just as well expect another great-aunt to leave him another lump of money as to look for any reimbursement from the source of his misfortune. The fellow was bad, he mused, but just how bad his friends and the world must find out for themselves. Of course he would give Molly a hint to that effect, when he saw her. He had not done so in the letter, because it had been hard enough to write, without that.

Hemming went on duty next day, wearing, to the little world of the regiment, his usual alert and undisturbed expression. Shortly before noon he wrote and forwarded a formal resignation of his commission. By dinner-time the word that he had given up the service had reached every member of the mess. Spalding's story had also made the rounds, in one form or another (thanks to Major O'Grady, that righteous enemy to gossip), and the colonel alone was ignorant of it. During dinner little was said about Hemming's sudden move. All felt it more or less keenly; the colonel grieved over the loss of so capable an officer, and the others lamented the fact that a friend and a gentleman was forced to leave their mess because one cad happened to be a member of it. Hemming felt their quiet sympathy. Even the waiters tending him displayed an increased solicitousness.

Hemming remained in Dublin a week after resigning his commission. He had a good deal of business to attend to, and some important letters to receive—one from the American Syndicate, containing a check, and at least two from Miss Travers. It had been the lady's custom, ever since their engagement, to write him twice a week. Three were now overdue. The American letter came, with its terse and satisfactory typewritten instructions and narrow slip of perforated paper, but the English missive failed to put in an appearance. He tried not to worry during the day, and, being busy, succeeded fairly well, but at night, being defenceless, care visited him even in his dreams. Sometimes he saw the woman he loved lying ill—too ill to hold a pen. Sometimes he saw her with a new unsuspected look in her eyes, turning an indifferent face upon his supplications. He lost weight in those few days, and Spalding (who, with the others, thought his only trouble the loss of his money) said that but for the work he had in getting a fair price for his pony, his high-cart, and his extra pairs of riding-boots, he would have blown his brains out.

On his last night in Dublin his old regiment gave a dinner in his honour. Civilians were there, and officers from every branch of the service, and when Major O'Grady beheld Hemming (which did not happen until late in the dinner), clothed in the unaccustomed black and white, with his medal with two clasps pinned on his coat, he tried to sing something about an Irish gentleman, and burst into tears.

"There's not a drop of the craychure in his blood," said Spalding, across the table.

"But he's the boy with the warm heart," whimpered the major.

"And the open hand," said the subaltern.

"The same has been the ruin of many of us," replied O'Grady.

It was well for Lieutenant Penthouse that he did not return to Dublin in time to attend that dinner.

Hemming knew a score of private houses in London where he would be welcome for a night or a month, but in his bitter mood he ignored the rights of friendship and went to a small hotel in an unfashionable part of the town. As soon as he had changed from his rough tweeds into more suitable attire, he started, in a cab, for the Travers house. The bishop was dead, and the widow, preferring London to Norfolk, spent every season in town. Hemming was sure of finding some one at home, though he trembled at the memory of his evil dreams. Upon reaching the house he dismissed the cab. The maid who opened the door recognized him, and showed him into the drawing-room.

"I hope every one is well," he said, pausing on the threshold.

"Yes, sir," replied the maid, looking surprised at the question. She had seen Captain Hemming many times, but never before had he addressed her.

It seemed to Hemming that he waited hours in the narrow, heavily furnished room. He could not sit still. At last he got to his feet, and, crossing to a corner table, examined the photographs of some people he knew. He wondered where his had gone to—the full-length portrait by Bettel, in field-uniform. He looked for it everywhere, an uncomfortable curiosity pricking him. Turning from his search, he saw Miss Travers watching him. He took a step toward her, and stopped short. Her face was white, her eyes were dark with the shadow of pain. Something had put out the familiar illumination that love had lighted so gloriously.

"Molly," whispered the man. His hands, extended at first sight of her, dropped impotently at his side. "For God's sake, what is the matter?" he cried. His honest gray eyes asked the question as plainly. Hers wavered, and looked beyond him in a pitiful, strained gaze.

"Why do you ask? You surely know," she said.

He could not speak for a moment. His brain, in a whirl of apprehension, groped for some clue whereby it might find understanding.

"I know nothing," he said, at last, "save that I am horribly afraid of something I do not understand—of your silence and the change in you." He paused for a moment, scanning her averted face. "And now I am a poor man," he added.

At that a faint red stole into her cheeks. He drew nearer and laid a hand quickly and tenderly upon her shoulder.

"Dear girl, can that weigh against me?" he asked, scarce above his breath. She moved from his touch with a gesture that sent the blood ringing back to brain and heart. The madness of the righteous anger ebbed, leaving him cool and observant.

"I must beg your pardon for intruding, and now I shall go," he said. "It was well worth the loss of a few thousands of pounds—to find the real nature of your love."

He passed her with squared shoulders and sneering lip, and strode briskly toward the door.

"Wait," she cried, "I do not understand you." Her voice contained a new note.

He turned on the threshold and bowed.

"You have known me long enough," he said.

"Yes," she replied. He stood in the doorway and stared at her.

"If I am dreaming, then wake me, dear. Surely you love me?"

His voice was tense. He moved as if to approach her again.

"I have learned of your other life—of your living lie," she cried, weakly.

"My other life," he repeated, smiling gently.

"Yes," she said, "from my cousin. It was his duty. Tell me it is not true."

He saw the tears in her eyes. He marked the supplication in her voice. But he did not move from the threshold.

"From Penthouse?" he inquired.

She did not answer him. She stood with one hand raised to her breast, and a world of entreaty in her gaze.

"I thought," said Hemming, coldly, "that you loved me. I thought that when a woman loved the man who loves her, that she also trusted him. But I am very ignorant, considering my age."

He took his hat and stick from the rack in the hall, and let himself out of the front door. He stood for a few seconds on the steps and looked up and down the street. A cab rolled up to the curb. After drawing on his gloves and adjusting his monocle, he stepped into the cab and quietly gave the name of his club to the man behind.

The cab bowled along the quiet, respectable street.

"Stop here," cried Hemming, when they had reached the corner, and as the horse slid to a standstill he stepped out, and went up to a heavily dressed young man on the pavement. The stranger did not see him, and held on in the direction from which Hemming had just come.

"Excuse me—a word," said Hemming.

The other halted. His heavy, handsome face whitened under its unhealthy skin.

"Ah, how do, Hemming," he said.

Hemming took the extended hand. They stood about the same height. Hemming retained his grip of the other's hand.

"I am somewhat pressed for time," he said, "so you'll forgive me if I begin immediately."

He jerked Mr. Penthouse toward him with a downward wrench of his right arm, and, with his stick in his left hand, he administered a short and severe caning.

"I'm a-waitin' for you, guvnor," called the cabby.

Leaving Mr. Penthouse seated upon the pavement, dazed and blasphemous, Hemming returned to the cab and drove away.

CHAPTER III.
HEMMING VISITS THE MANAGER OF THE SYNDICATE

Hemming's club was a favourite resort of military and naval men stationed near town, or home on leave. He met half a dozen whom he knew more or less intimately. All had something to say about his change of career, but presently he escaped them, and sought a quiet corner of the reading-room, where he could smoke and stare at the latest papers. Reading was out of the question. He might as well have tried to sing. Several times he was ready to leave the club and return to Miss Travers, but the memory of the movement she had made when he had touched her shoulder kept him crushed in his chair. He dined at the club, and drank more than was his custom. The sound wine brought colour back to his cheeks.

A youngster, who had been stationed in Halifax, Nova Scotia, for a year past, came over to his table with an American magazine in his hand.

"Do you know, old chap, your stories are quite the rage in Halifax," he said. "I notice, though, that the fellows here do not know what you are up to at all. One soon leaves the trick of reading the magazines on the other side."

This unexpected word for his literary work cheered Hemming considerably. He invited the youth to seat himself and have a cigar. Soon he found himself telling his admirer something of his aspirations.

When Anderson of the Royal Engineers came in, he found Hemming and the lieutenant on leave from Canada still talking across the table. Anderson was Hemming's senior by some four or five years, but they had been friends since childhood. After their greeting, Anderson said:

"Have you seen Penthouse?"

"Yes, I met him about five o'clock," replied Hemming.

Anderson's face brightened, and he slapped his knee with his broad hand.

"I ran across him in an apothecary's shop a few hours ago, and, as I had just heard of your arrival, I wondered if you had met him," he said. "You see," he continued, "I have had my eye on him of late. The Travers and I are still very good friends, you know."

"This sounds very interesting," broke in the lieutenant. "What is it all about?"

"I hardly know myself," answered Hemming.

The lieutenant wished them good night, shook hands cordially with both, and, after assuring Hemming that he would watch eagerly for everything he wrote, left the dining-room.

"Williams seems a good sort," remarked Hemming.

Anderson did not answer. He looked as if he were thinking unusually hard.

"I suppose you'll be in town for a while," he said.

"I leave to-morrow for Greece. I'm a newspaper correspondent now," replied Hemming.

"You must stay a few days," said the engineer. "A few days will do it. You have no right to fly off the handle like that."

"Like what?" asked the other.

"My dear boy, I have known for a week just how it would be, and now I am in rather a hole myself," said Anderson.

"Have you been living a double life?" inquired Hemming, with a sneer.

"Great heavens!" exclaimed the lusty sapper, "do you mean to say?—but no, I only told the lady that Penthouse was a rotten little liar. Strong language, I must admit."

Hemming laughed shortly.

"You must not trouble yourself too much, Dicky, for it's really not worth while," he said.

A little later Hemming excused himself to his friend on the plea that he had to return to his hotel, and write some letters.

"I am my own master no longer," he said.

"I think you are just beginning," replied Anderson, drily.

Hemming looked into the future, saw his body journeying, vagrant as the wind, and his hand at a hundred adventures, but never an hour of freedom. He went down the wide steps and into the street with hell and longing in his heart.

Hemming spent two weeks in Greece. He wrote a few descriptive stories for his syndicate, and then crossed into Turkey, where he was offered a commission. He wired that fighting was certain. The syndicate thought otherwise, and called him across the world to see or make trouble in South America. He cursed their stupidity and started, spending only a few hours in England, and taking ship in Liverpool for New York. Arriving in that city, he and his possessions (and he carried a full outfit) journeyed in a cab to an old and respectable hotel on Broadway. The fare he had to pay opened his eyes. But what could he do beyond staring the cabby out of countenance with his baleful, glaring eye-glass? At the hotel, they were kind enough to take him for a duke in disguise. Next morning he found his way to the offices of the New York News Syndicate, in a high gray building on Fulton Street. He scrambled into one of the great caged elevators, close on the heels of a stout gentleman in a yellow spring overcoat and silk hat. The lift was lighted by several small electric bulbs. The air was warm, and heavy with the scent of stale cigarette smoke.

"New York News Syndicate," said Hemming to the attendant.

"Third floor," said the man, and up they shot and stopped. The iron grating was rolled back. Hemming stepped out into a cool, white-floored hall, and, turning, found the stout gentleman at his heels.

"I think you are Captain Hemming," said the stranger, "and I am quite sure I am Benjamin Dodder."

"Ah! the manager of the syndicate," exclaimed Hemming, waggling Mr. Dodder's extended hand, and looking keenly into his wide, clean-shaven face. Dodder was a much younger man than his figure would lead one to suppose. Hemming thought his face far too heavy for his bright, good-natured brown eyes.

"I got in last night, and came 'round for orders," explained Hemming.

"That was good of you," replied the manager, looking gratified. He led the way through several large rooms, where clerks and stenographers were hard at work, to his private office. He paused at the door, and turning, said to a clerk with a glaring red necktie and beautifully parted hair: "Ask Mr. Wells to step into my room when he comes. Tell him Captain Herbert Hemming has arrived." A dozen keen, inquiring faces were lifted from desk and machine, and turned toward the new correspondent.

Within the manager's office were expensively upholstered chairs, leather-topped tables, polished bookcases, and half a dozen admirably chosen engravings, and above the grate many photographs, with signatures scrawled across them. The carpet underfoot was soft and thick.

"Try this chair, sir," invited Mr. Dodder.

Hemming sank into it, and balanced his hat and stick on his knees; Mr. Dodder snatched them from him and placed them on his table. Then he pulled off his coat and expanded his chest.

"Now I begin to feel like working," he remarked, with youthful gusto.

"What an extraordinary chap," thought Hemming.

Dodder opened a drawer in his table, and took out a box of cigars. Hemming recognized the label, and remembered that they cost, in London, three shillings apiece by the hundred.

"Have a smoke. They're not half bad," said the manager, extending the box.

The Englishman lit a weed, and felt that it was time to begin business.

"Why did you recall me from Greece?" he asked. "They are sure to stand up to Turkey, unless all signs fail."

This straightforward question seemed to catch the manager unawares. He rolled his cigar about between his white fingers, and crossed and uncrossed his legs several times before he answered.

"It's this way," he began, and paused to glance at the closed door. From the door his eyes turned to Hemming. "We believe as you do," he said, "but another man wanted the job. He left here three days ago."

As Hemming had nothing to say to that, Dodder continued: "The other chap has been with us five or six years, and, though he is a good writer, he knows nothing of war. You were my choice, but Devlin happens to be Wells's brother-in-law. I was up against it all right, so I slid off as easy as I could."

"Thank you all the same," said Hemming. "Now tell me what you want done in South America."

"We want you to start in Yucatan," replied Dodder, "or somewhere along there, and travel, with a nigger or two, to any part of the country that promises copy. If you hear of a revolution anywhere, go hunt it out. Use the wire when you have news, but for the rest of it write good, full stories in your usual style. Why, captain, have you any idea how many newspapers, in this country and Canada, printed each of those stories of yours from Greece and Turkey?"

Hemming shook his head.

"Twenty-six, no less," said the manager. "I believe you would prove a paying investment if we marooned you on Anticosti," he added.

"I am glad you like my stuff," answered Hemming, "and as for Anticosti, why, I believe one could make some interesting copy there."

"You must try it one of these days," said Dodder.

At that moment, a thin, undersized man entered the room, without the formality of knocking. He walked with a slight limp in his left foot. Dodder introduced him to Hemming as Mr. Wells, the syndicate's treasurer, and a partner in the concern. Wells gave the correspondent a nerveless handshake.

"Glad to meet you," he said, and turned to the manager with an air of inquiry.

It was clear to the Englishman that Dodder was not thoroughly at ease in his partner's company. He returned to his cigar and his seat with a suggestion of "by your leave" in his air.

"I think we shall let Captain Hemming start south as soon as he likes," he said.

"It's a pleasure trip, is it?" remarked Wells, with his hands in his pockets, and a casual eye on the Englishman.

Hemming stared, his cigar half-raised to his lips. Dodder flushed.

"Then Captain Hemming shall start day after to-morrow," he said, in a soothing voice. Wells paid no attention to this remark.

"I want you to send in more copy. You might let us have extra stories from each place, under another name. We could use them," he said to Hemming. The monocle held him in its unwinking regard for several seconds. Then the Englishman spoke:

"I wish you to understand me from the start," he said. "When I was in the service of my country, I was perfectly willing to do one man's work, or three men's work, for the pay that I got, because it was a matter of sentiment with me, and because I could afford to do it. But now, if I do two men's work, as you suggest, I draw double pay. Another thing, I shall take my orders from one man, or I shall take no orders at all. Mr. Dodder is my man for choice."

It was evident that this speech of the new correspondent's threw Dodder into a flurry, and left Wells aghast. Hemming sat in his comfortable chair, and calmly smoked his excellent cigar. At last Wells found his voice.

"I think the less I have to do with this man, the better," he said, and left the room. When the door shut behind him, Dodder sighed with relief.

"Thank God that's over," he said, and immediately expanded to his former genial self.

"What is the matter with him?" asked Hemming, mildly.

"Guess he was born that way," replied the manager, "and he really doesn't know what an impression he gives. He has a great head for business."

"I should judge so," said Hemming.

Dodder laughed. "Now pull up your chair and we'll make your plans," he said, straightening his bulky legs under the table. They worked busily with maps and note-books for over an hour. At the end of that time a clerk entered with a bunch of letters and manuscripts. One of the letters was for Hemming. It had been readdressed and forwarded half a dozen times; and after all it proved to be nothing more important than a meandering scrawl from Major O'Grady. "We keep your memory green, dear boy," wrote the major, and much more in the same vein. But a crooked postscript proved of interest. It said that Penthouse was back in Dublin, and was going to the bow-wows at a fearful pace.

Hemming completed his arrangements with the syndicate, and, returning to his hotel, lunched solidly on underdone steak, French fried potatoes, a bottle of ale, a jam tart, and coffee. Love might display clay feet. Wells might be as rude as the devil, and Penthouse might go to the devil, but Herbert Hemming did not intend setting forth on his affairs with an empty stomach. The world was a rotten enough place without that. He consumed three cigarettes over his coffee, in a leisurely manner, and by the time he had left his table by the window the great dining-room was empty. He spent the rest of the day wandering about the city, conquering a desire to write to Miss Travers. He dined at an Italian restaurant, and went early to bed. By nine next morning, he and his traps were aboard a little south-bound steamer.

CHAPTER IV.
THE ADVENT OF MR. O'ROURKE AND HIS SERVANT

The company of the Laura was small and undistinguished. The captain was a Nova Scotian, big and red, who had, once upon a time, skippered a full-rigged ship, and who still sighed at the memory of it as he looked along the narrow, dirty decks of his present craft. The mate was a New Yorker, with a master's certificate and a head full of stories of the prowess of the American Navy. The chief engineer had once been a good man in his profession, but the whiskey of his mother country had surely and slowly brought him down to his present berth. The half-dozen passengers were of little interest to Hemming, and the days dragged for him, sickening with memories. In self-defence he reverted to fiction, and even attempted verse.

One morning, in the Gulf of Mexico, the Laura was signalled by an open boat with a rubber blanket for sail. The engines slowed. Hemming was on the bridge at the time, and turned the captain's glass upon the little craft.

"What do you make of it, sir?" inquired the skipper, from the door of the tiny chart-room below.

"She looks like a ship's boat," replied Hemming. "The sail is rigged square, with a boat-hook and an oar for yards, and has a hole in the middle; it's a poncho, I think. There's a nigger forward, waving a shirt, and a white man aft, smoking."

The captain hurried up to the bridge and took the glass. After aiming it at the bobbing stranger, he turned to Hemming.

"My boat," he said, "and the same damn fool aboard her."

"Your boat?" inquired Hemming.

The mariner glared, with angry eyes, across the glinting water. Suddenly his face cleared. "I win," he cried. "I bet him ten dollars he'd have to get out inside six weeks, and by cracky, so he has!"

"Who is he?" asked the Englishman.

"He's Mr. O'Rourke, the man who's lookin' for trouble," replied the big Nova Scotian.

"What's he doing with your boat, and why didn't he take a decent sail while he was about it?" Hemming asked.

"He had a decent enough sail when I saw him last," explained the skipper, "and I don't mean to say that he's a thief. He paid for the boat, right enough, though he bargained pretty close. He wanted to see more of Cuba, you know, but the Spaniards wouldn't have anything more to do with him, because of something he wrote, so he just got me to steam in five weeks ago, and let him off in the port life-boat. Now he's back again, with a nigger."

"What's his game?" asked Hemming.

"Search me,—unless it's just trouble," said the mariner, returning the glass and hurrying down to the deck.

By this time the Laura was rolling lazily. The captain ordered a man to stand ready with a line; the poncho was lowered, aboard the adventurous rowboat, and the nigger manned the oars; the white man in the stern sheets stood up and raised his Panama hat, and the passengers along the Laura's rail replied with cheers. The captain leaned far over the side. "What about that bet?" he shouted. The stranger drew his hand from a pocket of his ragged ducks and held something aloft,—something crumpled and green. Then he regained his soaring seat, and gripped the tiller.

The captain lifted a beaming countenance to Hemming on the bridge. "That's the first white man who ever got out of Cuba with ten dollars," he bawled. Evidently the captain did not consider Spaniards as white men.

The line was thrown, and went circling and unfolding through the air until it fell into the boat. The ladder was unlashed and dropped over the Laura's side. In a minute O'Rourke and the pacifico were on the deck, and in another minute the port life-boat was back on its davits. O'Rourke was warmly welcomed aboard. Even the chief engineer appeared from below to shake his hand. The captain hurried him to the chart-room, and beckoned to Hemming from the door. When Hemming entered, he found the newcomer lying full length on the locker, with a glass of whiskey and water in his left hand, and the other under his head. He got stiffly to his feet upon the Englishman's entrance, and, after shaking hands cordially, lay down again.

"Now what do you think of that?" queried the skipper, glancing from O'Rourke to the other.

O'Rourke laughed good-naturedly, but with a note of weariness. "I must confess it was not exactly a Sunday-school picnic," he said, "and a chap's insides get fearfully squirmy on a diet of sugar-cane and a few random plantains."

The skipper, who had been carefully, even lovingly, mixing drinks in two more glasses, eyed O'Rourke severely.

"You'd better get married, and give up them tomfool actions," he said, "or some fine day the Spaniards will catch up to you, and then,—well, you'll be sorry, that's all."

"They caught up to several of our party this time," remarked O'Rourke, casually.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Hemming, straightening his eye-glass.

The man with the Irish name and non-committal accent turned his head on the locker, and smiled at the other adventurer.

"They were not particular pals of mine," he said, reassuringly, "so I didn't stay to inquire their fate."

"You're fool enough to have stayed," remarked the skipper.

Hemming stared at the free and easy language of the mariner, and at O'Rourke's good-natured way of taking it, for he had not yet become entirely accustomed to the ways of the world outside the army, and this O'Rourke, though unshaven and in tatters, was certainly a gentleman, by Hemming's standards. The master of the Laura may have read something of this in his passenger's face, for he turned to him and said: "Mr. O'Rourke and I are pretty good friends. We've played ashore together, and we've sailed together more than once, and when I call him a fool, why, it's my way of saying he's the bangest-up, straight-grained man I know. I never call him a fool before his inferiors, and if it came to any one else calling him anything, why—" and he slapped his big red hand on the chart-room table with a blow that rocked the bottles.

"Shut up," said O'Rourke, blushing beneath his bristles and tan, "or Captain Hemming will take me for as silly an ass as he takes you."

"Not at all," began Hemming, awkwardly, and, when the others roared with laughter, he hid his confusion by draining his glass. He had never before been laughed at quite so violently, but he found, rather to his surprise, that he liked it.

After lunch, O'Rourke (whose full name was Bertram St. Ives O'Rourke) retired to his stateroom, and did not reappear until dinner-time. He looked better then, clean shaven, and attired in one of the skipper's extra warm-weather suits. He filled the borrowed clothes well enough in length and in breadth of shoulder, but confessed, at table, that the trousers lapped twice around his waist. During the simple meal, the conversation was all of the internal disturbance of Cuba, and all the passengers, as well as the skipper, seemed interested in the matter and well informed of recent incidents. Hemming listened keenly, now and then putting a question. O'Rourke told a part of his adventures during his last stay in the island, and sketched, in vivid and well-chosen words, the daily life of the patriots. It was not as romantic as Hemming had hoped.

"It's a low sort of fighting on both sides,—not the kind you have mixed in," said O'Rourke to Hemming.

"I?" exclaimed Hemming, while the dusky passengers and burly skipper pricked up their ears.

"I saw your initials—H.H.—on your cigarette case," he explained, "and I have read some good things signed H.H., by an Englishman, on English army life, so of course I spotted you."

"I'm doing work for the New York News Syndicate now," said Hemming.

After dinner, O'Rourke led the way to the chart-room. From the locker he produced a small typewriting machine. This he oiled, and set up on the table. The skipper winked at Hemming.

"I wish I'd smashed the danged thing while he was away," he said. O'Rourke paid not the slightest attention to this pleasantry, but inserted a sheet of paper, of which he had a supply stored in the same place of safety.

"Now," said he, seating himself on a camp-stool before the machine, "I don't mind how much you two talk, but I have some work to do."

"You, too?" laughed the Englishman.

"I'm only a free-lance," said O'Rourke, and, lighting a cigarette, he began clicking the keys. For more than an hour he worked steadily, while the skipper and Hemming sat side by side on the locker and told stories. The door was hooked open, and a fresh breeze kept the room cool, and circled the pungent smoke.

When Hemming turned in, he found that He could not sleep. His brain jumped and kept busy, in spite of him. Now he lived again his exciting days in Northern India. From this he flashed to the Norfolk tennis lawn, where Molly Travers listened again to his ardent vows. He turned over and tried to win himself to slumber by counting imaginary sheep. But that only seemed to suggest to his memory the care-free days of his youth. Again he built forts in the warm earth of the potting-house. Again he fled from the red-headed gardener, and stumbled into piled-up ranks of flowerpots, hurling them to destruction. Again he watched his father, in pink and spurs, trot down the avenue in the gold, rare sunlight of those days. Feeling that these good memories would carry him safely to the land of peace, he closed his eyes,—only to find his mind busy with that last day in London. He climbed swiftly from his berth, and, after slipping his feet into his shoes, ascended to the deck. He did not wait to change his pajamas for anything more conventional. There was not a breath of wind. The stars burned big and white; the water over the side flashed away in silver fire, and farther out some rolling fish broke its trail of flame; to starboard lay a black suggestion of land. Looking forward, he saw that the door of the chart-room stood open, emitting a warm flood of lamplight. He went up to the lower bridge, or half-deck, where the chart-room stood, and glanced within. The skipper lay on the locker, snoring peacefully, and O'Rourke still clicked at the typewriter. Hemming stole quietly in and poured himself a glass of water from the clay bottle on the rack.

"Don't let me disturb you," he said to the worker. "I'll just have a smoke to kill wakefulness."

"If you can't sleep," said O'Rourke, "just listen to this as long as your eyes will stay open."

He sorted over his pages of copy and began to read. His voice was low-pitched, and through it sounded the whispering of the steamer's passage across the rocking waters. The style was full of colour, and Hemming was keenly interested from start to finish. Not until the last page was turned over did O'Rourke look up.

"What! not asleep yet!" he exclaimed.

"That seems to me very fine," said Hemming, seriously, "and I should certainly take it for literature of an unusually high order if I did not know that journalists cannot write literature."

"Do you think it will do?" asked O'Rourke, modestly.

"My dear chap," replied Hemming, "it will do for anything,—for a book, or to carve on a monument. It's a dashed sight too good for any newspaper."

"It certainly wouldn't do for a newspaper," laughed the younger man. "Just imagine an editor with a blue pencil, loose on those descriptions of vegetation. When I do newspaper stuff, I throw in the blood and leave out the beauty. That is for Griffin's Magazine."

"Are you sure of your market?" asked the Englishman, wondering for even in England, Griffin's was known for its quality.

"It was ordered," said O'Rourke, "and this will make the ninth article I have done for them within five years. After months of seeing and feeling things, I put the heart of it all, at one sitting, into a story for Griffin's. After that I cook my experiences and hard-earned knowledge into lesser dishes for lesser customers. Sometimes I even let it off in lyrics."

"You must flood the magazines," remarked Hemming, dryly.

"Not I. To begin with, I place a great deal of my work with publications of which you have never heard, and then, as I am young and very productive, I write under three names, using my own for only the things I wish to stand."

He arose and turned out the light, and to Hemming's amazement gray dawn was on the sea and the narrow decks, and on the morning wind came the odour of coffee.

"I think we are both good for a nap now," said O'Rourke. They left the master of the boat slumbering on his narrow couch, and went to their staterooms; and before Hemming fell asleep, with his face to the draft of the port, he thanked God in his heart for a new friend.

CHAPTER V.
THE ADVENTURERS DISPENSE WITH MR. NUNEZ

Hemming and O'Rourke, and O'Rourke's low-caste Cuban, landed in Belize. The Laura continued on her way to Truxillo, and more southern ports, for which she had a mixed freight of cheap articles of American manufacture. She would start north again from Costa Rica, should she be able to find a cargo, so O'Rourke and Hemming had both given manuscripts and letters to the Nova Scotia skipper, for mailing at the first likely opportunity, with word that they would wire an address later. This done, the adventurers purchased three undersized mules. O'Rourke picked up what he could in the way of an outfit, having left everything but his pipe and poncho in the Cuban bush. They loaded one of the mules with their belongings, and put it in charge of John Nunez, and, mounting the others, started south, skirting the coast. The trip was uneventful, but Hemming wrote a number of stories descriptive of the country and the people, the mules and his companions, under the general title of "Along New Trails with Old Mules." O'Rourke regarded his friend's display of energy with kindly disdain.

"There is bigger game to seaward," he said, and seemed ever on the lookout for rumours of war from the northeast. After three weeks' easy travelling, they awoke one morning to find that John Nunez had taken his departure during the night, and, along with his departure, one of their mules, a bag of hardtack and a slab of bacon.

O'Rourke looked relieved. "I've often wondered how I could ever get rid of him, you know. I once saved his life," he said.

"It's a good thing we happened to be using the rest of the provisions for pillows, or, by gad, your precious servant would have left us to starve," replied Hemming, in injured tones.

"Cheer up, old man," laughed O'Rourke. "We're not three miles from the coast, and I'll bet we are within ten of a village of some sort," he explained.

He was right, for by noon they were sitting at their ease before black coffee and a Spanish omelette, in a shabby eating-house. The town was one of some importance—in its own eyes. Also it interested Hemming. But O'Rourke sniffed.

"Gay colours and bad smells—I've experienced the whole thing before," said he.

"Then why the devil did you leave the Laura?" asked Hemming, pouring himself another glass of doubtful claret.

"To look after you," retorted O'Rourke.

"But, seriously," urged the Englishman.

"Oh, if you will be serious," confessed the freelance, "I'll admit that it's in my blood. I might have gone to New York and waited till further developments in Cuba; but I could no more see you go ashore, to waste your time and money, without wanting to follow suit, than you could see me buy that high-priced claret without wanting to drink it all yourself."

Hemming turned his monocle upon his friend in mild and curious regard.

"I doubt if there is another chap alive," he said, "who can write such wisdom and talk such rot as you."

"Oh, go easy," expostulated O'Rourke, "you've only read one article of mine—the twenty-page result of five weeks' sugar-cane and observation."

"It was remarkable stuff," mused Hemming.

The younger man had the grace to bow. "You don't look like the kind of chap who is lavish with his praise," he said.

Lighting a potent local cigar, he leaned back in his rickety chair, and shouted something in Spanish. The owner of the place appeared, rubbing his hands together and bowing. He was a fat, brown man, smelling of native cookery and native tobacco. O'Rourke talked, at some length, in Spanish, only a few words of which could Hemming understand. The proprietor waved his cigarette and gabbled back. Again O'Rourke took up the conversation, and this time his flow of mongrel Spanish was pricked out with bluff English oaths.

Hemming asked what it was all about. O'Rourke gave himself up to laughter.

"I have been trying to sell our mules," he said, at last, "but find that the market is already glutted."

Hemming shook his head disconsolately. "I fail to see the joke," he said.

"Mine host here informs me that a Cuban gentleman arrived shortly after daylight this morning," continued O'Rourke, "and sold a mule to the American consul."

"Our mule," gasped the enlightened Englishman—then, leaping from his chair with a violence that caused the fat proprietor to take refuge behind a table, he cried that there was still a chance of overtaking the rascal. O'Rourke begged him to finish his claret in peace. "And don't do anything rash," he said, "for I warn you that if you catch him you'll have to keep him. I tremble even now, lest he should enter the door and reclaim me as his master." He blew a thin wisp of smoke toward the ceiling, and laughed comfortably. Then his glance lowered to his friend, who had reseated himself at the other side of the table. He saw amazement and consternation written large in Hemming's face. The landlord also looked thunderstruck, standing with his mouth open, his eyes fixed upon the door, and a dirty napkin idle in his hand. O'Rourke turned and followed their enraptured gaze—and behold, clothed in new trousers and gaudy poncho, John Nunez bowing on the threshold.

For long seconds a painful silence held the inmates of the eating-house in thrall. The delinquent broke it with a stream of talk. He pointed heavenward; he touched his breast with his fingers; he spread his arms wide, and all the while he gabbled in Spanish. Tears ran down his dusky cheeks. O'Rourke regained his easy attitude, and heard the story to the end. He kept his gaze upon the Cuban's face, and not once did the Cuban meet it. At last the fellow stopped talking, and stood before his master with his sullen, tear-stained face half-hidden in a fold of his gay blanket.

"Well?" inquired Hemming.