ed, with a slight smile, that he was not very
greatly surprised, seeing that the perplexing character of that race was
such as to justify him in expecting almost anything of them.

"I'm not sure whether to take that remark as complimentary or
otherwise," returned Pedro; "however, the fighting tendency with which
my countrymen are credited has departed from me. I won't quarrel with
you on the point. At the age of sixteen I was sent to America to seek
my fortune. My mother I never knew. She died when I was a child. My
father died the year after I left home. How I came to drift here it
would be difficult, as well as tedious, to explain. Many of the men
with whom I have chummed in years gone by would have said that it was
chance which led me to South America. I never could agree with them on
this point. The word `chance' fitly describes the conditions sometimes
existing between man and man, and is used in Scripture in the parable of
the Good Samaritan, but there can be no such thing as chance with the
Almighty. I must have been led or guided here.

"At all events, hither I came, and wandered about for some years, with
that aimless indifference to the future which is but too characteristic
of youth--content to eat and sleep and toil, so that I might enjoy life,
and get plenty of excitement! I went to Peru first, and of course I
joined in the fights that were so frequently stirred up between that
country and its neighbour, Chili. A very little of that, however,
sufficed. The brutal ferocity of the soldiery with whom I was mixed up,
and their fearful disregard of age, sex, infirmity, or helpless
childhood during war disgusted me so much that I finally cut the army,
and took to hunting and doing a little trade between the countries lying
on the east and west sides of the Andes. It was while thus engaged that
I became acquainted with your good father, Senhor Armstrong, who has
more than once helped me over financial difficulties and set me on my
legs.

"At last came the grand crisis of my life. One evening when travelling
over the pampas of La Plata, I, with a dozen Gauchos, arrived at a
post-house where we meant to put up for the night. On coming in sight
of it we saw that something was wrong, for there were a number of
Indians fighting about the door. On seeing us they made off; but one,
who was in the house struggling with the postmaster, did not observe the
flight of his comrades, or could not get clear of