five hundred or so barefooted citizens standing around.”
“Are you telling the truth, Billy?” asked the consul, weakly.
“Am I? You ought to see the buncoed gentleman’s daughter he brought along. Looks! She makes the brick-dust señoritas here look like tar-babies.”
“Go on,” said Johnny, “if you can stop that asinine giggling. I hate to see a grown man make a laughing hyena of himself.”
“Name is Hemstetter,” went on Keogh. “He’s a—Hello! what’s the matter now?”
Johnny’s moccasined feet struck the floor with a thud as he wriggled out of his hammock.
“Get up, you idiot,” he said, sternly, “or I’ll brain you with this inkstand. That’s Rosine and her father. Gad! what a drivelling idiot old Patterson is! Get up, here, Billy Keogh, and help me. What the devil are we going to do? Has all the world gone crazy?”
Keogh rose and dusted himself. He managed to regain a decorous demeanour.
“Situation has got to be met, Johnny,” he said,
