“Well, this ‘ere little fortune is yours if you promise to abide by th’ conditions.”

“That I keeps my mouth shut.”

“An’ not open it even to th’ Mrs.”

Mr. Donovan permitted a doubt to wrinkle his brow.  “That’ll be a tough proposition.”

“Put th’ money in th’ bank and say nothin’ till you hear from me,” advised the captain.

“That’s a go.”

“Then I give you these five nice ones with th’ regards o’ th’ commodore.”  The captain stripped each bill and slowly laid it down on the table for the fear that by some curious circumstance there might be six.

“One hundred?  Capt’n, I’m a—­” Mr. Donovan emptied his glass with a few swift gulps and banged the table.  “Two more.”

The landlord lowered his paper wearily (would they never let him alone?) and stepped behind the bar.  At the same time Mr. Donovan folded the bills and stowed them away.

“Not even t’ th’ Mrs.,” he swore.  “Here’s luck, Capt’n.”

“Same t’ you; an’ don’t get drunk this side o’ Jersey City.”

And with this admonition the captain drank his beer and thumped off for the water front, satisfied that the village would hear nothing from Mr. Donovan.  Nevertheless, it was shameful to let a hundred go that easy; twenty would have served.  He was about to hail the skiff when he was accosted by the quiet little man he had recently observed sitting alone in the corner of Swan’s office.

“Pardon, but you are Captain Flanagan of the yacht Laura?”

“Yessir,” patiently.  “But the owner never lets anybody aboard he don’t know, sir.”

“I do not desire to come aboard, my Captain.  What I wish to know is if his excellency the admiral is at home.”

“His excellency” rather confounded the captain for a moment; but he came about without “takin’ more’n a bucketful,” as he afterward expressed it to Halloran the engineer.  “I knew right then he wus a furriner; I know ’em.  They ain’t no excellencies in th’ navy.  But I tells him that the commodore was snug in his berth up yonder, and with that he looks to me like I wus a lady.  I’ve seen him in Swan’s at night readin’; allus chasin’ butterflies when he sees ’em in the street.”  And the captain rounded out this period by touching his forehead as a subtle hint that in his opinion the foreigner carried no ballast.

In the intervening time the subject of this light suggestion was climbing the hill with that tireless resiliant step of one born to mountains.  No task appeared visibly to weary this man.  Small as he was, his bones were as strong and his muscles as stringy as a wolf’s.  If the butterfly was worth while he would follow till it fell to his net or daylight withdrew its support.  Never he lost patience, never his smile faltered, never his mild spectacled eyes wavered.  He was a savant by nature; he was a secret agent by choice.  Who knows anything about rare butterflies appreciates the peril of the pursuit; one never picks the going and often stumbles.  He was a hunter of butterflies by nature; but he possessed a something more than a mere smattering of other odd crafts.  He was familiar with precious gems, marbles he knew and cameos; he could point out the weakness in a drawing, the false effort in a symphony; he was something of mutual interest to every man and woman he met.