The ship that brought me home was captained by an erratic Swede, who changed his course and deposited me, with genuine compassion, in a small town on the Pacific coast of one of the Central American republics, a few hundred miles south of the port to which he had engaged to convey me.  But I was wearied of movement and exotic fancies; so I leaped contentedly upon the firm sands of the village of Mojada, telling myself I should be sure to find there the rest that I craved.  After all, far better to linger there (I thought), lulled by the sedative plash of the waves and the rustling of palm-fronds, than to sit upon the horsehair sofa of my parental home in the East, and there, cast down by currant wine and cake, and scourged by fatuous relatives, drivel into the ears of gaping neighbors sad stories of the death of colonial governors.

When I first saw Chloe Greene she was standing, all in white, in the doorway of her father’s tile-roofed ’dobe house.  She was polishing a silver cup with a cloth, and she looked like a pearl laid against black velvet.  She turned on me a flatteringly protracted but a wiltingly disapproving gaze, and then went inside, humming a light song to indicate the value she placed upon my existence.

Small wonder:  for Dr. Stamford (the most disreputable professional man between Juneau and Valparaiso) and I were zigzagging along the turfy street, tunelessly singing the words of “Auld Lang Syne” to the air of “Muzzer’s Little Coal-Black Coon.”  We had come from the ice factory, which was Mojada’s palace of wickedness, where we had been playing billiards and opening black bottles, white with frost, that we dragged with strings out of old Sandoval’s ice-cold vats.

I turned in sudden rage to Dr. Stamford, as sober as the verger of a cathedral.  In a moment I had become aware that we were swine cast before a pearl.

“You beast,” I said, “this is half your doing.  And the other half is the fault of this cursed country.  I’d better have gone back to Sleepy-town and died in a wild orgy of currant wine and buns than to have had this happen.”

Stamford filled the empty street with his roaring laughter.

“You too!” he cried.  “And all as quick as the popping of a cork.  Well, she does seem to strike agreeably upon the retina.  But don’t burn your fingers.  All Mojada will tell you that Louis Devoe is the man.

“We will see about that,” said I.  “And, perhaps, whether he is a man as well as the man.”

I lost no time in meeting Louis Devoe.  That was easily accomplished, for the foreign colony in Mojada numbered scarce a dozen; and they gathered daily at a half-decent hotel kept by a Turk, where they managed to patch together the fluttering rags of country and civilization that were left them.  I sought Devoe before I did my pearl of the doorway, because I had learned a little of the game of war, and knew better than to strike for a prize before testing the strength of the enemy.