When I came down after dressing for dinner, Bates

called my attention to a belated mail. I pounced eagerly

upon a letter in Laurance Donovan's well-known

hand, bearing, to my surprise, an American stamp and

postmarked New Orleans. It was dated, however, at

Vera Cruz, Mexico, December fifteenth, 1901.

DEAR OLD MAN: I have had a merry time since I saw you

in New York. Couldn't get away for a European port

as I hoped when I left you, as the authorities seemed to

be taking my case seriously, and I was lucky to get off

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as a deck-hand on a south-bound boat. I expected to get a

slice of English prodigal veal at Christmas, but as things

stand now, I am grateful to be loose even in this God-forsaken

hole. The British bulldog is eager to insert its

teeth in my trousers, and I was flattered to see my picture

bulletined in a conspicuous place the day I struck Vera

Cruz. You see, they're badgering the Government at

home because I'm not apprehended, and they've got to

catch and hang me to show that they've really got their

hands on the Irish situation. I am not afraid of the

Greasers-no people who gorge themselves with bananas

and red peppers can be dangerous-but the British consul

here has a bad eye and even as I write I am dimly conscious

that a sleek person, who is ostensibly engaged in

literary work at the next table, is really killing time while

he waits for me to finish this screed.

No doubt you are peacefully settled on your ancestral

estate with only a few months and a little patience between

you and your grandfather's shier. You always were

a lucky brute. People die just to leave you money, whereas

I'll have to die to get out of jail.

I hope to land under the Stars and Stripes within a few

days, either across country through El Paso or via New

Orleans-preferably the former, as a man's social position

is rated high in Texas in proportion to the amount of reward

that's out for him. They'd probably give me the

freedom of the state if they knew my crimes had been the

subject of debate in the House of Commons.

But the man across the table is casually looking over

here for a glimpse of my signature, so I must give him

a good one just for fun. With best wishes always,

Faithfully yours,

GEORGE WASHINGTON SMITH.

P. S-I shan't mail this here, but give it to a red-haired

Irishman on a steamer that sails north to-night. Pleasant,

I must say, this eternal dodging! Wish I could share your

rural paradise for the length of a pipe and a bottle! Have

forgotten whether you said Indian Territory or Indiana,

but will take chances on the latter as more remotely suggesting

the aborigines.

Bates gave me my coffee in the library, as I wished

to settle down to an evening of reflection without delay.

Larry's report of himself was not reassuring. I knew

that if he had any idea of trying to reach me he would

not mention it in a letter which might fall into the

hands of the authorities, and the hope that he might

join me grew. I was not, perhaps, entitled to a companion

at Glenarm under the terms of my exile, but as

a matter of protection in the existing condition of affairs

there could be no legal or moral reason why I

should not defend myself against my foes, and Larry

was an ally worth having.




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