The enterprise. [volume] (Harlem, Mont.) 1899-1926, 1912-09-12

not hear the full story Of his wander
ings for many months. We knew he
had sailed from England for Rio in
the cabin de luxe of an English pack.
ct boat. From week to week, for pos
sibly two months, we received letters
from him. Then came the silence.
The silence continued for six
months until one morning received
a note written on American Line pa
per and postmarked Southampton. It
was signed by Ford
Shall arrive on Philadelphia with
in 48 hours after you receive this.
short of cash. Do you remember that
ten dollars you owe me?"
That was impudence for you! 1
should have known who wrote that
note, without a signature. However,
l clapped a ten-dollar bill in an envel.
ope and mailed it promptly. A week
later Ford dropped in to see me.
Much obliged for the cash, old
man. he said. 1T came in handy.
You see, they trimmed me beautiful
ly in Paris, and l started out for Rio
with my steamship ticket and barely
enough coin to last me three weeks.
In fact, when I got to the Chilean
frontier town across the Andes, l
was strapped That made me sick
of the whole job, and decided it was
time to head for home. There was a
prince of British consul there,
who loaned me a ten-spot and got me
pass for donkey transportation
across the mountains to the Argen-
| tine railroad.
Just by blind luck, I'd Clipped &C
quatntance with the chief engineer of
the construction gang on the Argen-
tine side, and so when / hit him for a
pass to Buenos Ayres, he ponied up
like good one.
Il was feeling pretty disconsolate
and l went into a cafe near the wa
ter front to forget myself for an hour
or two. That was the time when Bra
I'll and the Argentine were seeing
which could build warships the quick
est, you know, and there was big
Braziliano sitting in the place, with
his feet up, passing remarks to the
occupants in general. AS soon as he
saw me, he concentrated his attention,
apparently on the supposition that be-
cause l was small I must be easy.
stood about two sentences and then
went for him. We were rolling pro-
miscuously around the restaurant, and
| was getting a bit the worst of it,
when little man with an arm like
steam-flail came through the door. Aft
er he got through with my Brazilian
friend there were no scraps to be
picked up.
well, we shook hands and told
each other we'd always been longing
to meet, and afterwards we had
drink. The little man was a British
er, captain of tramp steamer due
to sail the next afternoon, and when
l told him of my troubles he clapped
me on the back and offered me free
passage to Rotterdam. I'll have to
put you down on the books as cabin
boy or steward he said. But you'll
do no work. Come as my guest; I'll
be glad to have YOU He was prince,
that skipper. Fed me at his own ta-
BILE, gave me his own cigars and wine,
and when we reached Rotterdam he
staked me to Paris,
Aunt Jane was in Paris, fortunate.
ly for me, and I think she was so
glad at the prospect of getting me
back to America that she divied up
without any side REMARKS
l never really knew Citation, the
fifth of my vagabonds. 1 had been |
dining at a club in Picadilly with an
engineering friend, and as we were
passing out through the club parlors
my friend drew me aside to make
room for a big, broad shouldered
man wearing blue spectacles. That's
Chatton," he whispered. "He was one
of the principal assistants in the con.
struction of the new trans-Andean
line. He's always had bad eyes, and
the doctor told me he ought not to
work above the snow line, but that
wouldn't do for Citation. He wants
to be where the fun is. You see, en-
gineering as science means little to
him. It's the game he likes-the fight
to overmaster some problem. Poor
Citation! Whenever there was des-
perate job to be done, he was bound
to be on it-and all for beggarly six
or seven pounds week, l suppose"
"Why do you say Poor Chatton?"
l asked.
Because he'll never get over this
latest eye trouble. He got it from the
snow glare, just as the doctors said
he would
But what will the man do?" ex-
claimed. GLOW is he going to live?"
Hell live-survive, rather" rejoin.
ed my friend, bitterly. His people
have money. But he'll never work !
again. Every one who knows him is
always cut up. And he feels it, too,
although he's deuced plucky about
it,"
If you have been in the habit of