“D’ye remember the Frenchman,” I asked, “the man who was always asking about the Incas?” “The ginger-headed feller?” “Yes, a little fellow.”  “A red-headed, ambitious little runt?  I remember him,” said Billy; “he left us at Payta, the time we fouled the launch.”  “That’s the man,” I said; “have you heard anything of him?” “Oh, he’s dead all right,” said Billy.  “His mother came out after him; there was a piece in the Chile Times about him.”  “He was killed, I suppose?” “Yes, them Indians got him, somewhere in Ecuador, Tommy Hains told me.  They got his head back, though.  It was being sold in the streets; his old mother offered a reward, and the Dagoes got it back for her.  He’s dead all right, he is; he might ha’ known as much, going alone among them Indians.  Dead?  I guess he is dead; none but a red-headed runt’d have been such a lunk as to try it.”  “He was an ambitious lad,” I said.  “Yes,” said Billy, “he was.  Them ambitious fellers, they want the earth, and they get their blooming heads pickled; that’s what they get by it.  Here’s happy days, young feller.”