MR. PETERSON, OF PARIS. 



"By ALVAH D. JAMES. 



T all happened on the 

 bosom of the Paci- 

 fic. I called it at 



the time a "d n 



rough sheet of 

 brine." But time 

 has softened the 

 picture of the roll- 

 ing waves, until 

 their very motion, 

 as I see them now, 

 seems poetry. 

 A huge ship lay wallowing in the 

 surge, nothing more nor less than a dull 

 Pacific swell. The ship's name was the 

 Mexico. All Coast travelers know her, 

 because she is the finest ship afloat south 

 of 'Frisco. The Mexico was anchored 

 three miles from the sugar port of 

 Eten, on the Peruvian coast, and 

 from her truck flew the quarantine flag. 

 She was imprisoned for ten days, and 

 this day was but the third. I was a 

 passenger on the Mexico. 



My two companions and I were en 

 route to the Amazon Valley in search 

 of adventure. The three of us were 

 eating our hearts out as we walked the 

 sun-scorched, glistening deck of the 

 good ship Mexico, for the lure of the 

 Amazon was on us. 



We played bridge with the English 

 passengers until the bridge and the pas- 

 sengers became impossible. We had 

 fun for a time trying to insert a few 

 jokes into the heads of the English- 

 men. We were particularly fond of 

 operating on a fellow named Powell 

 (pronounced Puell), some grandson of 

 some English earl or other, "oover 

 thar." We talked about things "oover 

 thar, dontyerknow," until, the very 

 mention of "things oover thar" set us 

 to pacing the decks savagely. We were 

 positively bored. We were indeed. 



We had constitutionals, and one day 

 I asked the steward if there was a room 

 on board which we could fit up tempo- 



rarily as a gymnasium. But the stew- 

 ard "never heard of such a fool idea." 

 Ah, that poor steward, he had trouble 

 for the ten days of quarantine. 



The night of the third day a young 

 mining engineer from Colorado, Mr. 

 Peterson, of Paris, the photographer 

 of my party, and I broke into the fruit 

 pantry, just for a lark, and stole a quan- 

 tity of fruit. We proposed to steal it 

 during the first half of the night, and 

 put it back during the second half. But 

 we got it out and could not get it back 

 again. And we had made a wager of 

 twenty-five dollars with our friend 

 "Puell" that the thing would be done 

 successfully, too. 



We not only lost the twenty-five dol- 

 lars, but we gave the watchman who 

 caught us ten dollars to keep the af- 

 fair quiet. But it wasn't kept quiet 

 long. "Puell" thought the thing "so 

 deuced funny, yer know, old chep," that 

 he told everybody on the ship. 



I called Mr. Peterson, of Paris, into 

 my room one evening shortly after the 

 fruit episode, and we took council upon 

 the proper method of winning back our 

 twenty-five dollars. We figured that 

 the Englishman had enjoyed twenty- 

 five dollars' worth of fun. 



"Mr. Peterson," I said, "you know 

 we have a folding canvas boat in the 

 baggage room." 



"Yes, ' Mr. Peterson knew that. 



"Well," said I, "are you game to join 

 me in launching that thing over the side 

 of this ship and to paddle around her? 

 If you are, we can win back the wager, 

 and perhaps even get back the ten dol- 

 lars we gave the watchman." 



Mr. Peterson, of Paris, wasn't used 

 to, have people take much notice of him, 

 and the prominence he had already been 

 brought into pleased him immensely. 

 He was forty years old, but very child- 

 ish. 



Yes, Mr. Peterson, of Paris, was 



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