When I came down after dressing for dinner, Bates
called my attention to a belated mail. I pounced eagerly
upon a letter in Laurance Donovan's well-known
hand, bearing, to my surprise, an American stamp and
postmarked New Orleans. It was dated, however, at
Vera Cruz, Mexico, December fifteenth, 1901.
DEAR OLD MAN: I have had a merry time since I saw you
in New York. Couldn't get away for a European port
as I hoped when I left you, as the authorities seemed to
be taking my case seriously, and I was lucky to get off
as a deck-hand on a south-bound boat. I expected to get a
slice of English prodigal veal at Christmas, but as things
stand now, I am grateful to be loose even in this God-forsaken
hole. The British bulldog is eager to insert its
teeth in my trousers, and I was flattered to see my picture
bulletined in a conspicuous place the day I struck Vera
Cruz. You see, they're badgering the Government at
home because I'm not apprehended, and they've got to
catch and hang me to show that they've really got their
hands on the Irish situation. I am not afraid of the
Greasers-no people who gorge themselves with bananas
and red peppers can be dangerous-but the British consul
here has a bad eye and even as I write I am dimly conscious
that a sleek person, who is ostensibly engaged in
literary work at the next table, is really killing time while
he waits for me to finish this screed.
No doubt you are peacefully settled on your ancestral
estate with only a few months and a little patience between
you and your grandfather's shier. You always were
a lucky brute. People die just to leave you money, whereas
I'll have to die to get out of jail.
I hope to land under the Stars and Stripes within a few
days, either across country through El Paso or via New
Orleans-preferably the former, as a man's social position
is rated high in Texas in proportion to the amount of reward
that's out for him. They'd probably give me the
freedom of the state if they knew my crimes had been the
subject of debate in the House of Commons.
But the man across the table is casually looking over
here for a glimpse of my signature, so I must give him
a good one just for fun. With best wishes always,
Faithfully yours,
GEORGE WASHINGTON SMITH.
P. S-I shan't mail this here, but give it to a red-haired
Irishman on a steamer that sails north to-night. Pleasant,
I must say, this eternal dodging! Wish I could share your
rural paradise for the length of a pipe and a bottle! Have
forgotten whether you said Indian Territory or Indiana,
but will take chances on the latter as more remotely suggesting
the aborigines.
Bates gave me my coffee in the library, as I wished
to settle down to an evening of reflection without delay.
Larry's report of himself was not reassuring. I knew
that if he had any idea of trying to reach me he would
not mention it in a letter which might fall into the
hands of the authorities, and the hope that he might
join me grew. I was not, perhaps, entitled to a companion
at Glenarm under the terms of my exile, but as
a matter of protection in the existing condition of affairs
there could be no legal or moral reason why I
should not defend myself against my foes, and Larry
was an ally worth having.