“It seems that O’Connor really did have some sort of system planned out beforehand.  He wrote plenty of letters; and every day or two some native gent would stroll round to headquarters and be shut up in the back room for half an hour with O’Connor and the interpreter.  I noticed that when they went in they were always smoking eight-inch cigars and at peace with the world; but when they came out they would be folding up a ten- or twenty-dollar bill and cursing the government horribly.

“One evening after we had been in Guaya—­in this town of Smellville-by-the-Sea—­about a month, and me and O’Connor were sitting outside the door helping along old tempus fugit with rum and ice and limes, I says to him: 

“’If you’ll excuse a patriot that don’t exactly know what he’s patronizing, for the question—­what is your scheme for subjugating this country?  Do you intend to plunge it into bloodshed, or do you mean to buy its votes peacefully and honorably at the polls?’

“‘Bowers,’ says he, ’ye’re a fine little man and I intend to make great use of ye after the conflict.  But ye do not understand statecraft.  Already by now we have a network of strategy clutching with invisible fingers at the throat of the tyrant Calderas.  We have agents at work in every town in the republic.  The Liberal party is bound to win.  On our secret lists we have the names of enough sympathizers to crush the administration forces at a single blow.’

“‘A straw vote,’ says I, ‘only shows which way the hot air blows.’

“‘Who has accomplished this?’ goes on O’Connor.  ’I have.  I have directed everything.  The time was ripe when we came, so my agents inform me.  The people are groaning under burdens of taxes and levies.  Who will be their natural leader when they rise?  Could it be any one but meself?  ’Twas only yesterday that Zaldas, our representative in the province of Durasnas, tells me that the people, in secret, already call me “El Library Door,” which is the Spanish manner of saying “The Liberator."’

“’Was Zaldas that maroon-colored old Aztec with a paper collar on and unbleached domestic shoes?’ I asked.

“‘He was,’ says O’Connor.

“‘I saw him tucking a yellow-back into his vest pocket as he came out,’ says I.  ‘It may be,’ says I, ’that they call you a library door, but they treat you more like the side door of a bank.  But let us hope for the worst.’

“‘It has cost money, of course,’ says O’Connor; ’but we’ll have the country in our hands inside of a month.’

“In the evenings we walked about in the plaza and listened to the band playing and mingled with the populace at its distressing and obnoxious pleasures.  There were thirteen vehicles belonging to the upper classes, mostly rockaways and old-style barouches, such as the mayor rides in at the unveiling of the new poorhouse at Milledgeville, Alabama.  Round and round the desiccated fountain in the middle of the plaza they drove, and lifted their high silk hats