A favourite dodge to get your story read by the public is to assert that it is true， and then add that Truth is stranger than Fiction.I do not know if the yarn Iam anxious for you to read is true； but the Spanish purser of the fruit steamer El Carrero swore to me by the shrine of Santa Guadalupe that he had the facts from the U.S.
vice-consul at La Paz - a person who could not possibly have been cognizant of half of them.
As for the adage quoted above， I take pleasure in punc-turing it by affirming that I read in a purely fictional story the other day the line： "'Be it so，' said the police-1
When H.Ferguson Hedges， millionaire promoter， investor and man-about-New-York， turned his thoughts upon matters convivial， and word of it went "down the line，" bouncers took a precautionary turn at the Indian clubs， waiters put ironstone china on his favourite tables， cab drivers crowded close to the curbstone in front of all-night caf閟， and careful cashiers in his regular haunts charged up a few bottles to his account by way of preface and introduction.
As a money power a one-millionaire is of small account in a city where the man who cuts your slice of beef behind the free-lunch counter rides to work in his own automobile.
But Hedges spent his money as lavishly， loudly and showily as though he were only a clerk squandering a week's wages.And， after all， the bartender takes no interest in your reserve fund.He would rather look you up on his cash register than in Bradstreet.
On the evening that the material allegation of facts begins， Hedges was bidding dull care begone in the com-pany of five or six good fellows -- acquaintances and friends who had gathered in his wake.
Among them were two younger men -- Ralph Merriam， a broker， and Wade， his friend.
Two deep-sea cabmen were chartered.At Columbus Circle they hove to long enough to revile the statue of the great navigator， unpatriotically rebuking him for having voyaged in search of land instead of liquids.Midnight overtook the party marooned in the rear of a cheap caf？far uptown.
Hedges was arrogant， overriding and quarrelsome.
He was burly and tough， iron-gray but vigorous， "good"for the rest of the night.There was a dispute -- about nothing that matters -- and the five-fingered words were passed -- the words that represent the glove cast into the lists.Merriam played the r鬺e of the verbal Hotspur.
Hedges rose quickly， seized his chair， swung it once and smashed wildly dowp at Merriam's head.Merriam dodged， drew a small revolver and shot Hedges in the chest.The leading roysterer stumbled， fell in a wry heap， and lay still.
Wade， a commuter， had formed that habit of prompt-ness.He juggled Merriam out a side door， walked him to the corner， ran him a block and caught a hansom.They rode five minutes and then got out on a dark corner and dismissed the cab.Across the street the lights of a small saloon betrayed its hectic hospitality.
"Go in the back room of that saloon，" said Wade， "and wait.I'll go find out what's doing and let you know.
You may take two drinks while I am gone - no more."At ten minutes to one o'clock Wade returned.
"Brace up， old chap，" he said."The ambulance got there just as I did.The doctor says he's dead.You may have one more drink.You let me run this thing for you.You've got to skip.I don't believe a chair is legally a deadly weapon.You've got to make tracks， that's all there is to it."Merriam complained of the cold querulously， and asked for another drink."Did you notice what big veins he had on the back of his hands？" he said."Inever could stand -- I never could -- "
"Take one more，" said Wade， "and then come on.
I'll see you through."
Wade kept his promise so well that at eleven o'clock the next morning Merriam， with a new suit case full of new clothes and hair-brushes， stepped quietly on board a little 500-ton fruit steamer at an East River pier.The vessel had brought the season's first cargo of limes from Port Limon， and was homeward bound.Merriam had his bank balance of $2，800 in his pocket in large bills， and brief instructions to pile up as much water as he could between himself and New York.There was no time for anything more.
From Port Limon Merriam worked down the coast by schooner and sloop to Colon， thence across the isthmus to Panama， where he caught a tramp bound for Callao and such intermediate ports as might tempt the discursive skipper from his course.
It was at La Paz that Merriam decided to land -- La Paz the Beautiful， a little harbourless town smothered in a living green ribbon that banded the foot of a cloud-piercing mountain.Here the little steamer stopped to tread water while the captain's dory took him ashore that he might feel the pulse of the cocoanut market.Merriam went too， with his suit case， and remained.
Kalb， the vice-consul， a Gr鎐o-Armenian citizen of the United States， born in Hessen-Darmstadt， and edu-cated in Cincinnati ward primaries， considered all Ameri-cans his brothers and bankers.He attached himself to Merriam's elbow， introduced him to every one in La Paz who wore shoes， borrowed ten dollars and went back to his hammock.
There was a little wooden hotel in the edge of a banana grove， facing the sea， that catered to the tastes of the few foreigners that had dropped out of the world into the t，ri，qte Peruvian town.At Kalb's introductory： "Shake hands with -- ，" he had obediently exchanged manual salutations with a German doctor， one French and two Italian merchants， and three or four Americans who were spoken of as gold men， rubber men， mahogany men -- anything but men of living tissue.
After dinner Merriam sat in a corner of the broad front galeria with Bibb， a Vermonter interested in hydraulic mining， and smoked and drank Scotch "smoke." The moonlit sea， spreading infinitely before him， seemed to separate him beyond all apprehension from his old life.
