Disappointed, despondent, I still reconnoitered the various groups, when a loud, cheery voice called out,
“Richard, halloo!”
I experienced a welcome revulsion of feeling as these pleasant tones startled me to the consciousness that Mr. Burton had emerged from the shadow of a lamppost, against which he had been leaning, and was now almost within shaking-hands distance. I could have laughed or cried, whichever happened, as I recognized the familiar voice and form. Presently he was on the vessel. The squeeze I gave his hand, when we met, must have been severe, for he winced under it. I scarcely needed to say—“You have been successful!” or he to answer; there was a light on his face which assured me that at least he had not entirely failed.
“I have much, much to tell you, Richard. But first about my darling—is she well—happy?”
“Both. We have not had an accident. You will be surprised to see Lenore, she has improved so rapidly. My heart feels a thousand pounds lighter than it did an hour ago.”
“Why so?”
“Oh, I was so afraid you had not got away from Acapulco.”
“You do look pale, that’s a fact, Richard—as if you had not slept for a week. Let your mind rest in quiet, my friend. All is right. The trip has not been wasted. Now let God give us favoring breezes home, and two years of honest effort shall be rewarded. Justice shall be done. The wicked in high places shall be brought low.”
He always spoke as if impressed with an awful sense of his responsibility in bringing the iniquities of the favored rich to light; and on this occasion his expression was unusually earnest.
“Where is my little girl? What is the number of her stateroom? I would like to steal a kiss before she wakes; but I suppose that careful Marie has the door bolted and barred; so I will not disturb them. It is three whole hours to daylight yet. I can tell you the whole story of my adventures in that time, and I suppose you have a right to hear it as soon as possible. I will not keep you in suspense. Come into the cabin.”
We found a quiet corner, where, in the “wee sma’ hours,” by the dim light of the cabin-lamps, now nearly out, I listened, it is needless to say with what painful interest, to the account of Mr. Burton’s visit in Mexico. I will give the history here, as he gave it, with the same reservations which, it was evident, he still made in talking with me.
These reservations—which I could not fail to perceive he had frequently made, since the beginning of our acquaintance, and which, the reader will recollect, had at times excited my indignation—puzzled and annoyed me; but there was soon to come a time when I understood and appreciated them.
On that day of our outward voyage, when the ship was detained to land a portion of her passengers at Acapulco, Mr. Burton, restless at the delay, was leaning over the deck-rails, thrumming impatiently with his fingers, when his attention became gradually absorbed in the conversation of a group of Mexicans at his elbow, several of whom were of the party about to land. They spoke the corrupted Spanish of their country; but the listener understood it well enough to comprehend the most of what was said.
One of their number was describing a scene which occurred upon his landing at this same port some two years previous. The ship, bound for San Francisco, met with an accident, and put into Acapulco for repairs. The passengers knowing the steamer would not sail under twenty-four hours, the most of them broke the monotony of the delay by going on shore. A number of rough New Yorkers, going out to the mines, got into a quarrel with some of the natives, during which knives, pistols, etc., were freely used. A gentleman, named Don Miguel, the owner of a large and valuable hacienda which lay about thirty miles from Acapulco, and who had just landed from the steamer, attempted, imprudently, to interfere, not wishing his countrymen to be so touchy with their visitors, and was rewarded for his good intentions by receiving a severe stab in the side from one of the combatants. He bled profusely, and would soon have become exhausted, had not his wound been immediately and well dressed by a young American, one of the New York passengers, who had landed to see the sights, and was standing idly to one side, viewing the melee at the time Don Miguel was injured. The Don, exceedingly grateful for the timely attention, conceived a warm liking for the young man, whose “Yankee” quickness and readiness had attracted his attention while on board the steamer. Having given such proof
