“Thus we got along.  In about half an hour I was beginning to tell him about the scandal in our family when Aunt Elvira ran away with a Cumberland Presbyterian preacher.  Then he says to me: 

“’I sent for you, Mr. Bowers, to let you know that you can have your friend Mr. O’Connor now.  Of course we had to make a show of punishing him on account of his attack on General Tumbalo.  It is arranged that he shall be released to-morrow night.  You and he will be conveyed on board the fruit steamer Voyager, bound for New York, which lies in the harbor.  Your passage will be arranged for.’

“‘One moment, judge,’ says I; ‘that revolution—­’

“The judge lays back in his chair and howls.

“‘Why,’ says he presently, ’that was all a little joke fixed up by the boys around the court-room, and one or two of our cut-ups, and a few clerks in the stores.  The town is bursting its sides with laughing.  The boys made themselves up to be conspirators, and they—­what you call it?—­stick Senor O’Connor for his money.  It is very funny.’

“‘It was,’ says I.  ’I saw the joke all along.  I’ll take another highball, if your Honor don’t mind.’

“The next evening just at dark a couple of soldiers brought O’Connor down to the beach, where I was waiting under a cocoanut-tree.

“‘Hist!’ says I in his ear:  ’Dona Isabel has arranged our escape.  Not a word!’

“They rowed us in a boat out to a little steamer that smelled of table d’hote salad oil and bone phosphate.

“The great, mellow, tropical moon was rising as we steamed away.  O’Connor leaned on the taffrail or rear balcony of the ship and gazed silently at Guaya—­at Buncoville-on-the-Beach.

“He had the red rose in his hand.

“‘She will wait,’ I heard him say.  ’Eyes like hers never deceive.  But I shall see her again.  Traitors cannot keep an O’Connor down forever.’

“‘You talk like a sequel,’ says I.  ’But in Volume II please omit the light-haired friend who totes the grub to the hero in his dungeon cell.’

“And thus reminiscing, we came back to New York.”

There was a little silence broken only by the familiar roar of the streets after Kansas Bill Bowers ceased talking.

“Did O’Connor ever go back?” I asked.

“He attained his heart’s desire,” said Bill.  “Can you walk two blocks?  I’ll show you.”

He led me eastward and down a flight of stairs that was covered by a curious-shaped glowing, pagoda-like structure.  Signs and figures on the tiled walls and supporting columns attested that we were in the Grand Central station of the subway.  Hundreds of people were on the midway platform.

An uptown express dashed up and halted.  It was crowded.  There was a rush for it by a still larger crowd.

Towering above every one there a magnificent, broad-shouldered, athletic man leaped into the centre of the struggle.  Men and women he seized in either hand and hurled them like manikins toward the open gates of the train.