“The young gentleman has not been well, Sir Charles,” he said, apologetically.
The stranger straightened himself up and smiled vaguely. “I’m all right,” he murmured. “Sun’s too hot.”
“Sit down,” said the Governor.
He observed the stranger more closely. He noticed now that beneath the tan his face was delicate and finely cut, and that his yellow hair clung closely to a well-formed head.
“He seems faint. Has he had anything to eat?” asked the Governor.
The sergeant grinned guiltily. “Yes, Sir Charles; we’ve been feeding him at the barracks. It’s fever, sir.”
Sir Charles was not unacquainted with fallen gentlemen, “beach-combers,” “remittance men,” and vagrants who had known better days, and there had been something winning in this vagrant’s smile, and, moreover, he had reported that thorn in his flesh, the consular agent, to the proper authorities.
He conceived an interest in a young man who, though with naked feet, did not hesitate to correspond with his Minister of Foreign Affairs.
“How long have you been ill?” he asked.
The young man looked up from where he had sunk on the steps, and roused himself with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ve had a touch of Chagres ever since I was on the Isthmus. I was at work there on the railroad.”