“The two boats landed at the same moment.  I walked straight up to Anabela and Fergus.  Her eyes rested upon me for an instant; then she turned them, full of feeling and confidence, upon Fergus.  I knew I could not speak, but I was desperate.  In speech lay my only hope.  I could not stand beside Fergus and challenge comparison in the way of beauty.  Purely involuntarily, my larynx and epiglottis attempted to reproduce the sounds that my mind was calling upon my vocal organs to send forth.

“To my intense surprise and delight the words rolled forth beautifully clear, resonant, exquisitely modulated, full of power, expression, and long-repressed emotion.

“‘Senorita Anabela,’ says I, ’may I speak with you aside for a moment?’

“You don’t want details about that, do you?  Thanks.  The old eloquence had come back all right.  I led her under a cocoanut palm and put my old verbal spell on her again.

“‘Judson,’ says she, ’when you are talking to me I can hear nothing else—­I can see nothing else—­there is nothing and nobody else in the world for me.’

“Well, that’s about all of the story.  Anabela went back to Oratama in the steamer with me.  I never heard what became of Fergus.  I never saw him any more.  Anabela is now Mrs. Judson Tate.  Has my story bored you much?”

“No,” said I.  “I am always interested in psychological studies.  A human heart—­and especially a woman’s—­is a wonderful thing to contemplate.”

“It is,” said Judson Tate.  “And so are the trachea and bronchial tubes of man.  And the larynx too.  Did you ever make a study of the windpipe?”

“Never,” said I.  “But I have taken much pleasure in your story.  May I ask after Mrs. Tate, and inquire of her present health and whereabouts?”

“Oh, sure,” said Judson Tate.  “We are living in Bergen Avenue, Jersey City.  The climate down in Oratama didn’t suit Mrs. T. I don’t suppose you ever dissected the arytenoid cartilages of the epiglottis, did you?”

“Why, no,” said I, “I am no surgeon.”

“Pardon me,” said Judson Tate, “but every man should know enough of anatomy and therapeutics to safeguard his own health.  A sudden cold may set up capillary bronchitis or inflammation of the pulmonary vesicles, which may result in a serious affection of the vocal organs.”

“Perhaps so,” said I, with some impatience; “but that is neither here nor there.  Speaking of the strange manifestations of the affection of women, I—­”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Judson Tate; “they have peculiar ways.  But, as I was going to tell you:  when I went back to Oratama I found out from Manuel Iquito what was in that mixture he gave me for my lost voice.  I told you how quick it cured me.  He made that stuff from the chuchula plant.  Now, look here.”

Judson Tate drew an oblong, white pasteboard box from his pocket.

“For any cough,” he said, “or cold, or hoarseness, or bronchial affection whatsoever, I have here the greatest remedy in the world.  You see the formula, printed on the box.  Each tablet contains licorice, 2 grains; balsam tolu, 1/10 grain; oil of anise, 1/20 minim; oil of tar, 1/60 minim; oleo-resin of cubebs, 1/60 minim; fluid extract of chuchula, 1/10 minim.