“We'll give another cotillon!” exclaimed Ridgeway, “up in the city—give it for you, Ross, and you'll lead. It'll be the event of the season!”
Wilbur uttered an exclamation of contempt. “I've done with that sort of foolery,” he answered.
“Nonsense; why, think, we'll have it in your honor. Every smart girl in town will come, and you'll be the lion of—”
“You don't seem to understand!” cried Wilbur impatiently. “Do you think there's any fun in that for me now? Why, man, I've fought—fought with a naked dirk, fought with a coolie who snapped at me like an ape—and you talk to me of dancing and functions and german favors! It wouldn't do some of you people a bit of harm if you were shanghaied yourselves. That sort of life, if it don't do anything else, knocks a big bit of seriousness into you. You fellows make me sick,” he went on vehemently. “As though there wasn't anything else to do but lead cotillons and get up new figures!”
“Well, what do you propose to do?” asked Nat Ridgeway. “Where are you going now—back to Magdalena Bay?”
“No.”
“Where, then?”
Wilbur smote the table with his fist.
“Cuba!” he cried. “I've got a crack little schooner out in the bay here, and I've got a hundred thousand dollars' worth of loot aboard of her. I've tried beach-combing for a while, and now I'll try filibustering. It may be a crazy idea, but it's better than dancing. I'd rather lead an expedition than a german, and you can chew on that, Nathaniel Ridgeway.”
Jerry looked at him as he stood there before them in the filthy, reeking blouse and jeans, the ragged boots, and the mane of hair and tangled beard, and remembered the Wilbur he used to know—the Wilbur of the carefully creased trousers, the satin scarfs and fancy waistcoats.