clerk.

"Mr. Trenholm! Just one minute, please, Mr. Trenholm!"

The clerk called me and I halted, thinking that he had forgotten
something about my letter of credit, or wanted my signature again.

"I want you to meet Mr. Trego," said the teller. "He will be with you in
the _Kut Sang_."

I bowed, and Mr. Trego bowed, but his eyes were appraising me as he
looked at me, although outwardly he had the excessive politeness of a
Latin.

"I am very glad to meet you," he said without the trace of an accent,
although in that mechanical manner which makes the words sound as if they
had been read many times out of a grammar or phrase-book. I took him for
a Frenchman.

"I must be going now, but I hope to meet you on board," I said, and we
bowed again and I left him.

"He's all right," I heard the teller say as I went out, and understood
that the bank-clerk had assured Trego that my character was good enough
for him to be friendly with me on the passage to Hong-Kong.

As we swung out of Calle San Fernando I saw the _Kut Sang_ tied up at the
embankment of the Pasig River, with the Blue Peter at her foremast and
heavy black smoke pouring from her funnel. She had the aspect of a vessel
getting ready for sea, and the last of her cargo was being put into her
hold.

It was then that I was attracted to a knot of natives and sailors
clustered about an organ, in front of the decrepit building which I knew
for the Sailors' Home, roaring out the chorus of "Rock of Ages" as though
it were a chantey. There could be no mistaking the figure seated at the
wheezy little organ--the Rev. Luther Meeker, with his battered helmet on
the back of his head and his goggles turned skyward as he wailed in a
high-piped tenor the words of the old hymn.

He was too busy to see me and was making hard going of the tune, for the
assorted voices which followed his lead held to various keys. He may have
seen me from behind his goggles, but, if he did, he gave no sign, and I
urged the driver to whip up the horse and pass the group at a good clip.
I had no desire to be annoyed by the old impostor, and was afraid that he
might have some new pretext to keep me from going in the _Kut Sang_.

We were well clear of the congregation when I was startled to see Petrak
emerge from the pack of staring natives about the organ, and run after my
carriage.

"Take your luggage aboard for a peseta, sir!" he cried, grasping the side
of the vehicle and keeping pace with it