When Hedges saw Merriam his face flushed a dark red. Then he shouted
in his old, bluff way: "Hello, Merriam. Glad to see you. Didn't
expect to find you out here. Quinby, this is my old friend Merriam,
of New York--Merriam, Mr. Quinby."

Merriam gave Hedges and then Quinby an ice-cold hand. "Br-r-r-r!" said
Hedges. "But you've got a frapped flipper! Man, you're not well.
You're as yellow as a Chinaman. Malarial here? Steer us to a bar if
there is such a thing, and let's take a prophylactic."

Merriam, still half comatose, led them toward the Hotel Orilla del
Mar.

"Quinby and I," explained Hedges, puffing through the slippery sand,
"are looking out along the coast for some investments. We've just
come up from Concepcion and Valparaiso and Lima. The captain of this
subsidized ferry boat told us there was some good picking around
here in silver mines. So we got off. Now, where is that cafe,
Merriam? Oh, in this portable soda water pavilion?"

Leaving Quinby at the bar, Hedges drew Merriam aside.

"Now, what does this mean?" he said, with gruff kindness. "Are you
sulking about that fool row we had?"

"I thought," stammered Merriam--"I heard--they told me you were--
that I had--"

"Well, you didn't, and I'm not," said Hedges. "That fool young