Three days had passed. At the close of the third, Don Jose was
seated in a cosy private apartment of the San Mateo Hotel, where
they had halted for an arranged interview with his lawyer before
reaching San Francisco. From his window he could see the
surrounding park-like avenues of oaks and the level white high
road, now and then clouded with the dust of passing teams. But his
eyes were persistently fixed upon a small copy of the American
Constitution before him. Suddenly there was a quick rap on his
door, and before he could reply to it a man brusquely entered.

Don Jose raised his head slowly, and recognized the landlord. But
the intruder, apparently awed by the gentle, grave, and studious
figure before him, fell back for an instant in an attitude of surly
apology.

"Enter freely, my good Jenkinson," said Don Jose, with a quiet
courtesy that had all the effect of irony. "The apartment, such as
it is, is at your disposition. It is even yours, as is the house."

"Well, I'm darned if I know as it is," said the landlord,
recovering himself roughly, "and that's jest what's the matter.
Yer's that man of yours smashing things right and left in the bar-
room and chuckin' my waiters through the window."

"Softly, softly, good Jenkinson," said Don Jose, putting a mark in
the pages of the volume before him. "It is necessary first that I
should correct your speech. He is not my 'MAN,' which I comprehend
to mean a slave, a hireling, a thing obnoxious to the great
American nation which I admire and to which HE belongs. Therefore,
good Jenkinson, say 'friend,' 'companion,' 'guide,' philosopher,'