about
him, I tacked away for the little dobe building down toward the
water-front which at that day flew the American flag from the staff upon
its roof.

It was a busy place and most of the clerks I saw were Mestizoes, or
Spaniards, or the several shades of color between the two races. Spanish
seemed to be spoken for the most part; but finally a man came out of a
rear office and asked me abruptly what I wanted.

"I'd like to see Mr. Hefferan," I said.

"He's busy. Can't see him. What do you want?" snapped this man.

"I'm an American, and I'd like to see him," I began, but the fellow, who
had been looking me over pretty scornfully broke in:

"That's impossible, I tell you. Tell me what you want? Had trouble with
your captain? Overstayed your leave? Or have you just got out of jail?"

Now, I hadn't thought before this just how disreputable I looked. I was
dressed in the slops I had got out of the Scarboro's chest, was
barefooted, and was burned almost as black as any negro--where the skin
showed, at least. I couldn't much blame this whippersnapper of a
consul's clerk for thinking me a tough subject.

"None of those things fit my case, Mister," I said, mildly. "I know I
don't look handsome, but I've been on a whaling bark for several months
and I haven't had time yet to tog up."

"A whaleship?" he asked. "An American whaleship?"

"Yes, sir," said I.

"There is none in port."

"No, sir. I have been with the Scarboro. I'm mighty sure she's not in
port."

"The Scarboro?" he asked me with a sudden queer look coming into his
face. "You're one of the crew of the Scarboro?"

"Not exactly one of her crew. But she picked me up adrift and I have
been with her until lately."

"You come in here," said the clerk, slowly, motioning me into the room
behind him. And when we were in there he motioned me to a seat and sat
down himself in front of me. "Let's hear your yarn," he said.

I thought it was rather strange he should be so interested, and likewise
that he should stare at me so all the time I was talking. But I gave him
a pretty good account of my adventures from the time I was blown out of
Bolderhead Harbor, finishing with how I came to be at Buenos Ayres
without the bark herself being within six or seven hundred miles of the
port.

"So that's your yarn, is it?" he asked me grimly, when I was done.

I stared at him in turn. To tell the truth, I was getting a little warm.
His face showed nothing like good-humor