ay had seemed uninhabited
were astir with life. In the patios beautiful gardens were blooming, and
through iron gates easy-chairs and hammocks could be seen.

Many of the senoritas had come forth, and were strolling in groups of
threes or fours, dressed in pink and white lawn, with Spanish veils and
fans. The most of them wore white stockings and red-heeled slippers.

Many a witching glance was shyly cast at Frank, but his mind was so
occupied that he heeded none of them.

The hotel was reached, and they were dismounting, when a battered and
tattered old man, about whose shoulders was cast a ragged blanket, and
whose face was hidden by a scraggly, white beard, came up with a
faltering step.

"Pardon me," he said, in a thin, cracked voice, "I see you are
Americans, natives of the States, Yankees, and, as I happen to be from
Michigan, I hasten to speak to you. I know you will have pity on an
unfortunate countryman. My story is short. My son came to this wretched
land to try to make a fortune. He went into the mines, and was doing
well. He sent me home money, and I put a little aside, so that I had a
snug little sum after a time. Then he fell into the hands of Pacheco,
the bandit. You have heard of Pacheco, gentlemen?"

"We have," said Frank, who was endeavoring to get a fair look into the
old man's eyes.

"We surely have," agreed the professor.

"Vell, you can pet my poots on dot!" nodded Hans.

"The wretch--the cutthroat!" cried the old man, shaking his clinched
hand in the air. "Why didn't he kill me? He has robbed me of
everything--everything!"

"Tell us--finish your story," urged the professor.

Frank said nothing. The light from a window shone close by the old man.
Frank was waiting for the man to change his position so the light would
shine on his face.

For some moments the man seemed too agitated to proceed, but he finally
went on.

"My son--my son fell into the hands of this wretched bandit. Pacheco
took him captive. Then he sent word to me that he would murder my son if
I did not appear and pay two thousand dollars ransom money. Two thousand
dollars! I did not have it in the world. But I had a little home. I sold
it--I sold everything to raise the money to save my boy. I obtained it.
And then--then, my friends, I received another letter. Then Pacheco
demanded three thousand dollars."

"Der brice vos on der jump," murmured Hans.

"But that is not the worst!" cried the old man, waving his arms,