“I don’t drink just now, thanks,” said Trysdale.
“Your brandy,” resumed the other, coming over and joining him, “is abominable. Run down to see me some time at Punta Redonda, and try some of our stuff that old Garcia smuggles in. It’s worth the trip. Hallo! here’s an old acquaintance. Wherever did you rake up this cactus, Trysdale?”
“A present,” said Trysdale, “from a friend. Know the species?”
“Very well. It’s a tropical concern. See hundreds of ’em around Punta every day. Here’s the name on this tag tied to it. Know any Spanish, Trysdale?”
“No,” said Trysdale, with the bitter wraith of a smile—“Is it Spanish?”
“Yes. The natives imagine the leaves are reaching out and beckoning to you. They call it by this name—Ventomarme. Name means in English, ‘Come and take me.’”
THE DETECTIVE DETECTOR
I was walking in Central Park with Avery Knight, the great New York burglar, highwayman, and murderer.
“But, my dear Knight,” said I, “it sounds incredible. You have undoubtedly performed some of the most wonderful feats in your profession known to modern crime. You have committed some marvellous deeds under the very noses of the police—you have boldly entered the homes of millionaires and held them up with an empty gun while you made free with their silver and jewels; you have sandbagged citizens in the glare of Broadway’s electric lights; you have killed and robbed with superb openness and absolute impunity—but when you boast that within forty-eight hours after committing a murder you can run down and actually bring me face to face with the detective assigned to apprehend you, I must beg leave to express my doubts—remember, you are in New York.”
Avery Knight smiled indulgently.