lave of their own, and there's nothing a negro likes so much as
a white fag to bully. But it was no use; the overseers always turned me
off. I was too lame to be quick; and I couldn't manage the heavy loads.
And then I was always getting these attacks of inflammation, or whatever
the confounded thing is.

"After some time I went down to the silver-mines and tried to get work
there; but it was all no good. The managers laughed at the very notion
of taking me on, and as for the men, they made a dead set at me."

"Why was that?"

"Oh, human nature, I suppose; they saw I had only one hand that I could
hit back with. They're a mangy, half-caste lot; negroes and Zambos
mostly. And then those horrible coolies! So at last I got enough of
that, and set off to tramp the country at random; just wandering about,
on the chance of something turning up."

"To tramp? With that lame foot!"

He looked up with a sudden, piteous catching of the breath.

"I--I was hungry," he said.

She turned her head a little away and rested her chin on one hand. After
a moment's silence he began again, his voice sinking lower and lower as
he spoke:

"Well, I tramped, and tramped, till I was nearly mad with tramping, and
nothing came of it. I got down into Ecuador, and there it was worse than
ever. Sometimes I'd get a bit of tinkering to do,--I'm a pretty fair
tinker,--or an errand to run, or a pigstye to clean out; sometimes I
did--oh, I hardly know what. And then at last, one day------"

The slender, brown hand clenched itself suddenly on the table, and
Gemma, raising her head, glanced at him anxiously. His side-face was
turned towards her, and she could see a vein on the temple beating like
a hammer, with quick, irregular strokes. She bent forward and laid a
gentle hand on his arm.

"Never mind the rest; it's almost too horrible to talk about."

He stared doubtfully at the hand, shook his head, and went on steadily:

"Then one day I met a travelling variety show. You remember that one the
other night; well, that sort of thing, only coarser and more indecent.
The Zambos are not like these gentle Florentines; they don't care for
anything that is not foul or brutal. There was bull-fighting, too, of
course. They had camped out by the roadside for the night; and I went up
to their tent to beg. Well, the weather was hot and I was half starved,
and so--I fainted at the door of the tent. I had a trick of fainting
suddenly at that time, like a boa