"I had noticed there was a kind of a village back of the beach, and
enough scenery to outfit a dozen moving-picture shows. But I thought, of
course, it was a cannibal suburb, and I was wondering whether I was to
be served with carrots or mushrooms. And, as I say, this dressed-up man
sits beside me, and we become friends in the space of a minute or two.
For an hour we talked, and he told me all about it.

"It seems that he was a man of parts, conscientiousness, and
plausibility, besides being educated and a wreck to his appetites. He
told me all about it. Colleges had turned him out, and distilleries had
taken him in. Did I tell you his name? It was Clifford Wainwright. I
didn't exactly catch the cause of his being cast away on that particular
stretch of South America; but I reckon it was his own business. I asked
him if he'd ever been second cook on a tramp fruiter, and he said no; so
that concluded my line of surmises. But he talked like the encyclopedia
from 'A--Berlin' to 'Trilo--Zyria.' And he carried a watch--a silver
arrangement with works, and up to date within twenty-four hours, anyhow.

"'I'm pleased to have met you,' says Wainwright. 'I'm a devotee to the
great joss Booze; but my ruminating facilities are unrepaired,' says
he--or words to that effect. 'And I hate,' says he, 'to see fools trying
to run the world.'

"'I never touch a drop,' says I, 'and there are many kinds of fools; and
the world runs on its own apex, according to science, with no meddling
from me.'

"'I was referring,' says he, 'to the president of this republic. His
country is in a desperate condition. Its treasury is empty, it's on the
verge of war with Nicamala, and if it wasn't for the hot weather the