“You are heavily in debt?”

“Very.”

“Whatever I may say to you will go no further?”

“No further.”

The legless man stroked his chin strongly with his thick fingers.  “I am engineering a little revolution,” he said.  “My own morals are negligible.  Any revolution that offered a profit would look good to me.  But in this case the revolutionary party is oppressed, down-trodden, robbed, starved, and murdered by conditions created by the party in power.  I am not yet at liberty to name you the part of the world in which this state of affairs exists, that will be for later.  Meanwhile, if my proposition interests you, will you take my word for the place and for the abuse of power?  Indeed, the latter smells to heaven.”

“South America,” said Wilmot, “is full of just such rottenness as you describe.  I suppose you’re speaking of some South American republic?”

“Maybe I am,” said Blizzard, “and maybe I’m not.  That will be for later—­for January 15th.  On that date my soldiers of fortune will be gathered in New York and told their destiny.  I am hoping that you will be one of the leaders.”

“I know nothing of soldiering.”

“Your record proves that you are a great hand with a rifle.  It stands to reason that you can teach the trick to others.”

“Possibly,” said Wilmot, “to a certain extent.”

“I have,” said Blizzard, “a number of scattered mining interests in Utah.  I wish you to travel among them teaching the men in relays to shoot accurately and fast.  This can be done without greatly interfering with the working of the mines.  You would be nominally under the command of a man named O’Hagan, to whom I have written a letter introducing you, on the chance that you might care to use it.”

“Where,” said Wilmot smiling, “does the business end of the affair begin?  I’m rotten with debts.”

“For teaching my men to shoot,” said Blizzard, “I will pay you the money that you owe me.  That’s one debt written off.”

“And how shall I live in the meanwhile?”

“I have empowered O’Hagan to pay you five hundred dollars a month.”

“And the rest of my debts?  How about them?”

“You will fight for down-trodden people,” said Blizzard gravely.  “If you win, you will find them grateful—­possibly beyond the dreams of avarice.  In the republic of which we are speaking there is wealth enough for all.  It is one of the richest little corners of God’s footstool—­gold, diamonds, silver.  If you succeed you will be on Easy Street.  If you fail, you will very likely get a bullet through your head.”

Wilmot’s face brightened.  “If I got killed trying to pay ’em,” said he, “my creditors couldn’t feel very nasty toward me, could they?”

A look of strong admiration came into Blizzard’s hard eyes.  “I like the way your mind works,” said he.  “If you get killed in my service, I’ll pay your debts myself.”