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“The answer, then,” said Dicky, “is held by the Almighty, Wall Street, and Cupid. So, the question remains.”

“This,” queried the captain, including Dicky’s surroundings in a significant gesture of his hand, “is it–it is notiit is not connected with the business of your little shop? There is no failure in your plans?”

“No, no,” said Dicky. “This is merely the result of a little private affair of mine, a digression from the regular line of business. They say for a complete life a man must know poverty, love, and war. But they don’t go well together, ~capitan mio~. No; there is no failure in my business. The little shop is doing very well.”

When the captain had departed Dicky called the sergeant of the jail squad and asked:

“Am I ~preso~ by the military or by the civil authority?”

“Surely there is no martial law in effect now, senor.”

“~Bueno~. Now go or send to the ~alcalde~, the ~Juez de la Paz~ and the ~Jefe de los Policios~. Tell them I am prepared at once to satisfy the demands of justice.” A folded bill of the “long green” slid into the sergeant’s hand.

Then Dicky’s smile came back again, for he knew that the hours of his captivity were numbered; and he hummed, in time with the sentry’s tread:

“They’re hanging men and women now, For lacking of the green.”

So, that night Dicky sat by the window of the room over his shop an his little saint sat close by, working at something silken and dainty. Dicky was thoughtful and grave. His red hair was in an unusual state of disorder. Pasa’s fingers often ached to smooth and arrange it, but Dicky would never allow it. He was poring, tonight, over a great litter of maps and books and papers on his table until that perpendicular line came between his brows that always distressed Pasa. Presently she went and brought his hat, and stood with it until he looked up, inquiringly.

“It is sad for you here,” she explained. “Go out and drink ~vino blanco~. Come back when you get that smile you used to wear. That is what I wish to see.”

Dicky laughed and threw down his papers. “The ~vino blanco~ stage is past. It has served its turn. Perhaps, after all, there was less entered my mouth and more my ears than people thought. But, there will be no more maps or frowns tonight. I promise you that. Come.”

They sat upon a reed ~silleta~ at the window and watched the quivering gleams from the lights of the ~Catarina~ reflected in the harbor.

Presently Pasa rippled out one of her infrequent chirrups of audible laughter.

“I was thinking,” she began, anticipating Dicky’s question, “of the foolish things girls have in their minds. Because I went to school in the States I used to have ambitions. Nothing less than to be the president’s wife would satisfy me. And, look, thou red picaroon, to what obscure fate thou hast stolen me!”

“Don’t give up hope,” said Dicky, smiling. “More than one Irishman has been the ruler of a South American country. There was a dictator of Chili named O’Higgins. Why not a President Maloney, of Anchuria? Say the word, ~santita mia~, and we’ll make the race.”

“No, no, no, thou red-haired, reckless one!” sighed Pasa; “I am content”–she laid her head against his arm–“here.”