if there were any, or a novel or two from his scanty
stock. Their original friendship had died a violent death, but a new one
had gradually risen on the ashes of the old. Skiddy had no more
illusions in respect to this romantic-minded humbug and semi-pirate; but
the man was likable, tremendously likable, and, in spite of himself, the
little consul could not forbear suffering some of the pangs of remorse.
The world was so big, so wide, with such a sufficiency of room for all
(even romantic-minded humbugs and semi-pirates), and it was hard that
Providence should have singled him out to clip this eagle's wings. There
was something, too, very pathetic in Satterlee's contentment. He
confided to Skiddy that he had never been so happy. With glistening eyes
he would discourse on "these simple people," "these good hearts," "this
lovely and uncontaminated paradise, where evil seems never to have set
its hand," and expatiate generally on the beauty, charm, and
tranquillity of Samoan life. He dreaded the time, he said, when a
ruthless civilization would sweep it all away.

Satterlee and he took long walks into the mountains, invariably
accompanied by a Scanlon brother to give an official aspect to the
excursion. It maintained the fast-disappearing principle that Satterlee
was a convict and under vigilant guard. It served to take away the
appearance, besides (which they might otherwise have presented), of two
friends spending a happy day together in the country. A Scanlon brother
stood for the United States Government and the majesty of law, and
propriety demanded his presence as peremptorily as a chaperon for a
young lady. A Scanlon brother could be useful, too, in climbing cocoanut
trees, rubbing sticks together when the matches were lost, and in
guiding them to noble waterfalls far hidden in the forest.

In this manner nearly a whole year passed, which, for the little consul,
represented an unavoidable monthly outlay of fifty-five dollars. He got
somewhat used to it, as everybody gets somewhat used to everything; but
he could not resist certain recurring intervals of depression when he
contrasted his present circumstances with his bygone glory. Fifty-five
dollars a month made a big hole in a consular income, and he would gaze
down that ten-year vista with a sinking heart. But relief was closer at
hand than he had ever dared to hope. From the Department? No, but from
Satterlee himself.

The news was brought to little Skiddy earl