“All right, buddy,” said the captain.  “I hope your ma won’t blame me for this little childish escapade of yours.”  He beckoned to one of the boat’s crew.  “Let Sanchez lift you out to the skiff so you won’t get your feet wet.”

Thacker, the United States consul at Buenas Tierras, was not yet drunk.  It was only eleven o’clock; and he never arrived at his desired state of beatitude—­a state wherein he sang ancient maudlin vaudeville songs and pelted his screaming parrot with banana peels—­until the middle of the afternoon.  So, when he looked up from his hammock at the sound of a slight cough, and saw the Kid standing in the door of the consulate, he was still in a condition to extend the hospitality and courtesy due from the representative of a great nation.  “Don’t disturb yourself,” said the Kid, easily.  “I just dropped in.  They told me it was customary to light at your camp before starting in to round up the town.  I just came in on a ship from Texas.”

“Glad to see you, Mr.—­” said the consul.

The Kid laughed.

“Sprague Dalton,” he said.  “It sounds funny to me to hear it.  I’m called the Llano Kid in the Rio Grande country.”

“I’m Thacker,” said the consul.  “Take that cane-bottom chair.  Now if you’ve come to invest, you want somebody to advise you.  These dingies will cheat you out of the gold in your teeth if you don’t understand their ways.  Try a cigar?”

“Much obliged,” said the Kid, “but if it wasn’t for my corn shucks and the little bag in my back pocket I couldn’t live a minute.”  He took out his “makings,” and rolled a cigarette.

“They speak Spanish here,” said the consul.  “You’ll need an interpreter.  If there’s anything I can do, why, I’d be delighted.  If you’re buying fruit lands or looking for a concession of any sort, you’ll want somebody who knows the ropes to look out for you.”

“I speak Spanish,” said the Kid, “about nine times better than I do English.  Everybody speaks it on the range where I come from.  And I’m not in the market for anything.”

“You speak Spanish?” said Thacker thoughtfully.  He regarded the kid absorbedly.

“You look like a Spaniard, too,” he continued.  “And you’re from Texas.  And you can’t be more than twenty or twenty-one.  I wonder if you’ve got any nerve.”

“You got a deal of some kind to put through?” asked the Texan, with unexpected shrewdness.

“Are you open to a proposition?” said Thacker.

“What’s the use to deny it?” said the Kid.  “I got into a little gun frolic down in Laredo and plugged a white man.  There wasn’t any Mexican handy.  And I come down to your parrot-and-monkey range just for to smell the morning-glories and marigolds.  Now, do you sabe?”

Thacker got up and closed the door.

“Let me see your hand,” he said.

He took the Kid’s left hand, and examined the back of it closely.

“I can do it,” he said excitedly.  “Your flesh is as hard as wood and as healthy as a baby’s.  It will heal in a week.”