Very soon I found another surprise—­my friend Mr. Carson of the Rockies.  It seemed a little incongruous that the simple, unlettered Irishman should have found his way into the brilliant, many-countried company, where were men who made history and held the fate of nations in their hands and built or crumbled empires, and women to match, regally gowned, keen of wit and wisdom.

But, bless you, he was neither troubled nor out of place.  He was the essence of democracy and mixed with the guests with the same innocent simplicity that he would have shown at his village church social.

He greeted me cordially, asked after Jack and spoke enthusiastically of his work.

I smiled when I saw that in the curious shuffling of cards he had been chosen as the dinner escort of a tall and stately Russian beauty.  I watched them walk across the waxen floor and heard him say to her, “Sure if I had time I would telegraph for me roller skates to guide ye safely over the slickness of the boards.”  Her answering laugh, sweet and friendly, was reassuring.

For a while it was a deadly solemn feast.  The difficulty was to find topics of common interest without stumbling upon forbidden subjects.  You see, Mate, times are critical; and the only way to keep out of trouble is not to get in by being too wordy.  By my side sat a stern-visaged leader of the Revolution.  Across the way, a Manchu Prince.

Mr. Carson and the beauty were just opposite.  I became absorbed in watching her exquisite tact in guiding the awkward hands of her partner through the silver puzzle on each side of his plate to the right eating utensils at the proper time.  I saw her pleased interest in all his talk, whether it was crops, cider or pigtails.  And for her gentle courtesy and kindness to my old friend I blessed her and wiped out a big score I had against her country.  How glad Russia will be!

But the Irishman was not happy.  Course after course had been served.  With every rich course came a rare wine.  Colorado shook a shaggy gray head at every bottle, though he was choking with thirst.  He was a teetotaler.  Whenever boy No. 1, who served the wine, approached, he whispered, “Water.”  It got to be “Water, please, water!” Then threateningly, “Water, blame ye!  Fetch me water.”  It was vain pleading.  At best a Chinaman is no friend to water; and when the word is flung at him with an Emerald accent it fails to arrive.  But ten courses without moisture bred desperation; and all at once, down the length of that banquet board, went a hoarsely whispered plea, in the richest imaginable brogue,

“Hostess, where ’s the pump?”

It was like a sky-rocket scattering showers of sparks on a lowering cloud.  In a twinkling the heaviness of the feast was dispersed by shouts of laughter.  Everybody found something delightful to tell that was not dangerous.

We wound up by going to a Chinese theater.  When we left, after two hours of death and devastation, the demands of the drama for gore were still so great, assistants had to be called from out the audience to change the scenery and dead men brought to life to go on with the play.