“Well, I’ll tell Mr. Carter you’re here.”  The secretary glided unobtrusively toward the private office, disappeared, glided softly into view again, and waggled a boneless forefinger invitingly.  O’Reilly went to meet his employer as a man marches to execution.

His heart sank further at the welcome he received, for the importer gave him a veritable embrace; he patted him on the back and inquired three times as to his health.  O’Reilly was anything but cold now; he was perspiring profusely, and he felt his collar growing limp.  To shatter this old man’s eager hopes would be like kicking a child in the face.  Carter had never been so enthusiastic, so demonstrative; there was something almost theatrical in his greeting.  It dismayed O’Reilly immensely to realize what a hold he must have upon his employer’s affections.  Although the latter had a reputation for self-control, he appeared to be in a perfect flutter now.  He assumed a boisterousness which seemed strained and wholly out of keeping with the circumstances.  His actions vaguely reminded the younger man of an ambling draft-horse trying to gallop; and when, for the fourth time, Mr. Carter inquired solicitously concerning his visitor’s well-being, Johnnie’s dismay turned to amazement.  With a heavy playfulness Mr. Carter at length remarked: 

“Well, my boy, you made a fizzle of it, didn’t you?” The tone was almost complimentary.

“Yes, sir, I’m a bright and shining failure,” O’Reilly acknowledged, hopefully.

“Now, don’t ‘yes, sir’ me.  We’re friends, aren’t we?  Good!  Understand, I don’t blame you in the least—­it’s that idiotic revolution that spoiled our business.  I can’t understand those people.  Lord!  You did splendidly, under the circumstances.”

“They have reason enough to revolt—­oppression, tyranny, corruption.”  O’Reilly mumbled the familiar words in a numb paralysis at Mr. Carter’s jovial familiarity.

“All Latin countries are corrupt,” announced the importer—­“always have been and always will be.  They thrive under oppression.  Politics is purely a business proposition with those people.  However, I dare say this uprising won’t last long.”

O’Reilly welcomed this trend of the conversation; anything was better than fulsome praise, and the discussion would delay the coming crash.  It seemed strange, however, that Samuel Carter should take time to discourse about generalities.  Johnnie wondered why the old man didn’t get down to cases.

“It’s more than an uprising, sir,” he said.  “The rebels have overrun the eastern end of the island, and when I left Maceo and Gomez were sweeping west.”

“Bah!  It takes money to run a war.”

“They have money,” desperately argued O’Reilly.  “Marti raised more than a million dollars, and every Cuban cigar-maker in the United States gives a part of his wages every week to the cause.  The best blood of Cuba is in the fight.  The rebels are poorly armed, but if our Government recognizes their belligerency they’ll soon fix that.  Spain is about busted; she can’t stand the strain.”