to unusual proportions and he awaits serenely its slow unraveling.
Meanwhile Mr. Felton is invoking the vials of wrath upon all cabmen, past, present and to come. It is nearly 11:30 when they reach the pier and, as they expect, the steamer has gone.
"'Tain't my fault, mum," the "cabbie" explains apologetically. "Him's the chap what done it," indicating Riley, who has driven up to the pier with the triumphant flourish of a winner in a great race.
Mr. Felton casts a withering look upon the jolly Irishman. "We may as well return to the hotel," he tells Louise.
At this moment Van Zandt steps from his cab, and, raising his hat, remarks:
"I trust that the carelessness of my driver has not caused you serious annoyance."
"He has prevented our catching the last steamer that will sail for Cuba in probably some months," replies Mr. Felton, tartly.
"You blockhead!" cries Van Zandt sternly, turning to Riley, who averts his face.
"My dear sir, it is needless for me to assure you of my profound regret. It will not help matters. The mischief is done—and yet I think I can repair it."
"Repair it?" repeats Mr. Felton. "In what possible way, sir?"
"Very easily, if you desire. You were going to Havana, I presume?"
"Yes, sir."
"My yacht sails for Santiago this afternoon at 1 o'clock. I shall be happy to land you at that port, and you may thence proceed by rail to Havana."
Mr. Felton and Louise look at each other in surprise. "Really, sir," says the former, "you are very good, but I do not see how we can put you to such trouble."
"I assure you that you will not inconvenience me in the slightest. The yacht is large and you will be the only passengers, with one exception."
Mr. Felton hesitates. "How badly does he want to go
