I'll come in and see the padre to-morrow evening.
"Stay; you had better come and fetch me. Take dinner with me
to-morrow, and we'll drive down in a hack."
The Colonel slips his pistol in its pocket, winks, takes a pull
at the cocktail of the American, old Kentucky's silver stream, and
grasps his gold-headed club. He is ready now to meet friend or
foe.
Joy in his heart, good humor on his face, jingling a few "twenties,"
which he carries from habit, he grasps a handful of cigars, and
pushes the happy boy out of the open door.
"Oh! never mind that; I've got a French fellow sleeping around here
somewhere," he cries, as Armand signals the sanctum is unlocked.
"He always turns up if any one but HIMSELF tries to steal anything.
He's got a patent on that," laughs the "Croesus of the American
River."
Armand paints no stroke the next day. He confers with Pere Francois.
He is paralyzed when the cashier of the "Credit Lyonnais" hands
him five crisp one-thousand-franc notes. Colonel Joe Woods' check
is of international potency. It is not, then, a mere dream.
When the jovial Colonel is introduced to the family circle he
is at home in ten minutes. His good nature carries off easily his
halting French.
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