“Then behold the death of that impudent fellow Andrew Bowers, late valet de chambre to this eminent mining engineer and prince of gentlemen, Mr. John Stuart Webster. Doctor Pacheco, will you be good enough to perform the operation?”
“This gentleman,” said the doctor, laying his hand on Andrew's shoulder, “is Don Ricardo Luiz Ruey, a gentleman, a patriot, and the future president of our unhappy country.”
Webster put his hands on the young man's shoulders. “Ricardo my son,” he asked earnestly, “do you think you could give me some little hint of the approximate date on which you will assume office? By the nine gods of war, I never wanted a friend at court so badly as I want one to-night.”
Doctor Pacheco, Colonel Caraveo, and Ricardo Ruey exchanged glances and laughed heartily. “I must introduce him to Captain Benavides and Lieutenant Arredondo,” the Colonel said slyly.
“What!” Webster was amazed. “You know about it already?”
“Better than that, friend Webster. We knew about it before it happened. That is, we knew it was going to happen,” Ricardo informed him. .
Webster sat down and helped himself from a box of cigars he found on Ricardo's bureau. “I feel I am among friends at last,” he announced between preliminary puffs; “so listen while I spin a strange tale. I've been the picture of bad luck ever since I started for this infernal—this wonderful country of yours. After leaving Denver for New Orleans, I came within a whisker of dying of ptomaine poisoning. Then in New Orleans I took a Sunday-morning stroll in Jackson Square and came across two men trying to knife another. In the interest of common decency I interfered and won a sweeping victory, but to my amazement the prospective corpse took to his heels and advised me to do the same.”
Ricardo Ruey sprang for John Stuart Webster. “By George,” he said in English, “I'm going to hug you, too. I really ought to kiss you, because I'm that man you saved from assassination, but—too long in the U.S.A., I suppose; I've lost the customs of my country.”
“Get out,” yelled Webster, fending him off. “Did you lose anything in that fracas?”
“Yes, a Malacca stick.”