on the seaward gallery of the Centipede, drinking iced rum and talking.
“‘Judson,’ says Fergus, ‘there’s an angel in Oratama.’
“‘So long,’ says I, ‘as it ain’t Gabriel, why talk as if you had heard a trump blow?’
“‘It’s the Señorita Anabela Zamora,’ says Fergus. ‘She’s—she’s—she’s as lovely as—as hell!’
“‘Bravo!’ says I, laughing heartily. ‘You have a true lover’s eloquence to paint the beauties of your inamorata. You remind me,’ says I, ‘of Faust’s wooing of Marguerite—that is, if he wooed her after he went down the trap-door of the stage.’
“‘Judson,’ says Fergus, ‘you know you are as beautiless as a rhinoceros. You can’t have any interest in women. I’m awfully gone on Miss Anabela. And that’s why I’m telling you.’
“‘Oh, seguramente,’ says I. ‘I know I have a front elevation like an Aztec god that guards a buried treasure that never did exist in Jefferson County, Yucatan. But there are compensations. For instance, I am It in this country as far as the eye can reach, and then a few perches and poles. And again,’ says I, ‘when I engage people in a set-to of oral, vocal, and laryngeal utterances, I do not usually confine my side of the argument to what may be likened to a cheap phonographic reproduction of the ravings of a jellyfish.’
“‘Oh, I know,’ says Fergus, amiable, ‘that I’m not handy at small talk. Or large, either. That’s why I’m telling you. I want you to help me.’
“‘How can I do it?’ I asked.
