"Seeing me won't make his trip any pleasanter," O'Reilly said,
somberly.

"We were afraid you wouldn't get out of Cuba; thought we might
have to get the American consul at work."

"Really? I didn't know I was so important."

"Oh, you're the office pet, and well you know it." Mr. Slack's
pleasantry was tinged with envy, for he had never been able to
appreciate O'Reilly. "Conditions are bad, eh?"

"Yes. Anybody can leave," the other told him. "It's getting back
that's difficult. The Spaniards don't like us, and I dare say they
have good reason, with all this talk of intervention and the
secret help we're lending the Insurrectos. They held me up in
Havana; tried to prove I was a spy. They were positively peeved
when they failed. Snippy people, those Spaniards."

"Well, I'll tell Mr. Carter you're here." The secretary glided
unobtrusively toward the private office, disappeared, glided
softly into view again, and waggled a boneless forefinger
invitingly. O'Reilly went to meet his employer as a man marches to
execution.

His heart sank further at the welcome he received, for the
importer gave him a veritable embrace; he patted him on the back
and inquired three times as to his health. O'Reilly was anything
but cold now; he was perspiring profusely, and he felt his collar