“‘What is it?’ says I.  ‘Theft, murder, rape, or what?’ I wanted to hear what he would have to say for himself, though of course I expected it would be some sort of lie.  But all he said was—­

“’Make it what you like.  I deny nothing.  It is no good denying anything.’

“I looked him over carefully and a thought struck me.

“‘They’ve got anarchists there, too,’ I said.  ’Perhaps you’re one of them.’

“‘I deny nothing whatever, monsieur,’ he repeats.

“This answer made me think that perhaps he was not an anarchist.  I believe those damned lunatics are rather proud of themselves.  If he had been one, he would have probably confessed straight out.

“‘What were you before you became a convict?’

“‘Ouvrier,’ he says.  ‘And a good workman, too.’

“At that I began to think he must be an anarchist, after all.  That’s the class they come mostly from, isn’t it?  I hate the cowardly bomb-throwing brutes.  I almost made up my mind to turn my horse short round and leave him to starve or drown where he was, whichever he liked best.  As to crossing the island to bother me again, the cattle would see to that.  I don’t know what induced me to ask—­

“‘What sort of workman?’

“I didn’t care a hang whether he answered me or not.  But when he said at once, ‘Mecanicien, monsieur,’ I nearly jumped out of the saddle with excitement.  The launch had been lying disabled and idle in the creek for three weeks.  My duty to the company was clear.  He noticed my start, too, and there we were for a minute or so staring at each other as if bewitched.

“‘Get up on my horse behind me,’ I told him.  ’You shall put my steam-launch to rights.’”

These are the words in which the worthy manager of the Maranon estate related to me the coming of the supposed anarchist.  He meant to keep him—­out of a sense of duty to the company—­and the name he had given him would prevent the fellow from obtaining employment anywhere in Horta.  The vaqueros of the estate, when they went on leave, spread it all over the town.  They did not know what an anarchist was, nor yet what Barcelona meant.  They called him Anarchisto de Barcelona, as if it were his Christian name and surname.  But the people in town had been reading in their papers about the anarchists in Europe and were very much impressed.  Over the jocular addition of “de Barcelona” Mr. Harry Gee chuckled with immense satisfaction.  “That breed is particularly murderous, isn’t it?  It makes the sawmills crowd still more afraid of having anything to do with him—­see?” he exulted, candidly.  “I hold him by that name better than if I had him chained up by the leg to the deck of the steam-launch.

“And mark,” he added, after a pause, “he does not deny it.  I am not wronging him in any way.  He is a convict of some sort, anyhow.”

“But I suppose you pay him some wages, don’t you?” I asked.