bare-armed--but what of that?

"It's her!" said William Trotter, looking. "She's come back! I'm
obliged; but I can't take the job. Thanks, just the same. Ain't it funny
how we can't do nothing for ourselves, but we can do wonders for the
other fellow? You was about to get me with your financial proposition;
but we've all got our weak points. Timotea's mine. And, say!" Trotter
had turned to leave, but he retraced the step or two that he had taken.
"I like to have left you without saying good-bye," said he. "It kind of
rattles you when they go away unexpected for a month and come back the
same way. Shake hands. So long! Say, do you remember them gunshots we
heard a while ago up at the cuartel? Well, I knew what they was, but I
didn't mention it. It was Clifford Wainwright being shot by a squad of
soldiers against a stone wall for giving away secrets of state to that
Nicamala republic. Oh, yes, it was rum that did it. He backslided and
got his. I guess we all have our weak points, and can't do much toward
helping ourselves. Mine's waiting for me. I'd have liked to have that
job with your brother, but--we've all got our weak points. So long!"


IV

A big black Carib carried me on his back through the surf to the ship's
boat. On the way the purser handed me a letter that he had brought for
me at the last moment from the post-office in Aguas Frescas. It was from
my brother. He requested me to meet him at the St. Charles Hotel in New
Orleans and accept a position with his house--in either cotton, sugar,
or sheetings, and with five thousand dollars a year as my salary.

When I arrived at the Crescent City I hurried away--far away from the