“A month ago,” went on Trotter, “she went away.  I don’t know where to.  But—­”

“You’d better come back to the States,” I insisted.  “I can promise you positively that my brother will give you a position in cotton, sugar, or sheetings—­I am not certain which.”

“I think she went back with her mother,” said Trotter, “to the village in the mountains that they come from.  Tell me, what would this job you speak of pay?”

“Why,” said I, hesitating over commerce, “I should say fifty or a hundred dollars a month—­maybe two hundred.”

“Ain’t it funny,” said Trotter, digging his toes in the sand, “what a chump a man is when it comes to paddling his own canoe?  I don’t know.  Of course, I’m not making a living here.  I’m on the bum.  But—­well, I wish you could have seen that Timotea.  Every man has his own weak spot.”

The gig from the Andador was coming ashore to take out the captain, purser, and myself, the lone passenger.

“I’ll guarantee,” said I confidently, “that my brother will pay you seventy-five dollars a month.”

“All right, then,” said William Trotter.  “I’ll—­”

But a soft voice called across the blazing sands.  A girl, faintly lemon-tinted, stood in the Calle Real and called.  She was bare-armed—­but what of that?

“It’s her!” said William Trotter, looking.  “She’s come back!  I’m obliged; but I can’t take the job.  Thanks, just the same.  Ain’t it funny how we can’t do nothing for ourselves, but we can do wonders for the other fellow?  You was about to get me with your financial proposition; but we’ve all got our weak points.  Timotea’s mine.  And, say!” Trotter had turned to leave, but he retraced the step or two that he had taken.  “I like to have left you without saying good-bye,” said he.  “It kind of rattles you when they go away unexpected for a month and come back the same way.  Shake hands.  So long!  Say, do you remember them gunshots we heard a while ago up at the cuartel?  Well, I knew what they was, but I didn’t mention it.  It was Clifford Wainwright being shot by a squad of soldiers against a stone wall for giving away secrets of state to that Nicamala republic.  Oh, yes, it was rum that did it.  He backslided and got his.  I guess we all have our weak points, and can’t do much toward helping ourselves.  Mine’s waiting for me.  I’d have liked to have that job with your brother, but—­we’ve all got our weak points.  So long!”

IV

A big black Carib carried me on his back through the surf to the ship’s boat.  On the way the purser handed me a letter that he had brought for me at the last moment from the post-office in Aguas Frescas.  It was from my brother.  He requested me to meet him at the St. Charles Hotel in New Orleans and accept a position with his house—­in either cotton, sugar, or sheetings, and with five thousand dollars a year as my salary.