An hour later the steamer was out of sight and the proclamations were posted in Ferdinand Street, and the Plaza, and at the consulates: “Three hundred dollars reward for the capture and return, dead or alive, of one known as 'Kid Sadler,' a fugitive from public justice, who committed felonious and insulting assault on Pedro Hillary, the well-known and respected resident of Ferdinand Street. It is suspected,” says the Proclamation, “that, if still in the city, he will endeavour to escape by steamer in disguise. Description.”——
Which description of him was remarkable for length and scorn.
I heard the American consul say to the British consul; “I'll tell you what that is, old man. That's a porous plaster. It has some holes, but it's meant to cover your indecency.”
That Thursday night I sat alone on the deck of the Hotel Helen Mar. It was near ten o'clock. I saw a flamingo rise from the river, and it flew over the Helen Mar, like a ghost, trailing its legs.
And the ladder creaked, and Sadler came over the side. He stepped soft and long like a ghost.
“How do?” he says, and sat down, and twankled his banjo.
Then I asked, “Why? What for?” I says, “I don't see it,” I says. “It ain't reasonable.” It was well enough for a flamingo, but a man has responsibilities. It's not right for him to be a floating object that's no such thing. He's got no business to be impossible, unless he explains himself. I stated that opinion pretty sharp, but Sadler was calm.
“Irish hooked the Harvest Moon” he says, “and lay outside for the steamer. I jumped overboard.”
“Changed your mind?”
“Well, I'd thought some of enlisting for the Chilian War, but Irish don't like war. Gives him the fidgits. I made a 'Farewell' going out. I thought I'd come round and tell it to you.” He sang hoarsely as follows: