The bullet spat on the water within a yard of the skiff’s side, and Francis saw the girl spring to her feet, knock up the rifle with her arm, and spoil the second shot. She was threatening the men with the revolver.

“Cayenne pepper, those damned, horrible, crazy Solanos,” the captain said.

“Yes, you’re right,” Francis agreed.

The Angelique made the outer rim of Chiriqui Lagoon and the Bull. After breakfast Francis landed to reconnoiter on the Bull.[28]

And Francis very immediately found that he had traversed not merely thirty degrees of latitude from New York but thirty hundred years, or centuries. Nearly naked, armed with cruelly heavy hacking blades of machetes,[29] the Indians told him that the Bull belonged to them. But there lives a madly impossible Gringo.[30]

Francis decided to meet the mysterious Gringo. He came down to the beach. On the shore, across the narrow channel, he saw a barefooted young man in the canvas trousers, who stepped from behind a palm, automatic pistol in hand, and shouted:

“Get out!”

“I beg you pardon?” Francis grinned, half-humorously, half-seriously.

“Nobody invited you,” the stranger retorted. “You’re intruding. Get off my island. I’ll give you half a minute.”

Francis’ arrival behind the trunk was simultaneous with the arrival of a bullet that thudded into the other side of it.

“Now, just for that![31]” he called out, as he centered a bullet into the trunk of the other man’s palm.

The next few minutes they were shooting each other.

“What gun are you using?” Francis asked with cool politeness.

“Colt’s,” came the answer.

Francis stepped boldly into the open, saying: “Then you’re all out.[32] I counted them. Eight. Now we can talk.”

The stranger stepped out, and it seemed Francis had previously known him. It was a replica of himself!

“Talk!” the stranger sneered, throwing down his pistol and drawing a knife. “Now we’ll just cut off your ears, and maybe scalp you.”

“Gee! Let’s wrestle.” Francis retorted.

“I want your ears,” the stranger answered pleasantly, as he slowly advanced.

“Sure. The man who wins gets the other fellow’s ears.”

“Agreed.” The young man in the canvas trousers sheathed his knife.

They began to fight. Francis was winning, but the stranger planted his foot in Francis’ abdomen. In a moment Francis was lying on his back.

“Why do you wear a mustache?” the stranger muttered.

“Go on and cut my ears,” Francis gasped. “The ears are yours, but the mustache is mine.”

“As for your ears, keep them. I never intended to cut them off. Get up and get out of here. And don’t come here again!”

In greater disgust than ever, Francis turned down to the beach toward his canoe.

“Say, will you leave your card?” the victor called after him.

“My name’s Morgan, that’s enough,” Francis answered.

“Really? No wonder we look alike. Listen,” the stranger said. “I am a Morgan, too.”

“My first name is Francis,” Francis returned. “And yours?”

“Henry. We must be remote cousins[33] or something or other. What are you doing here? As for me, I am looking for the old Morgan’s treasure.”

“So am I,” said Francis, extending his hand.

Henry rowed off to the Angelique with orders from his visitor to the skipper to stay at anchor. Francis slept until late in the morning of the following day.

“Let me tell you an interesting story,” Francis said to Henry. “Day before yesterday, I rowed ashore over on the mainland. The moment I landed, the prettiest girl in the world dragged me away into the jungle. I thought she was going to eat me or marry me. I didn’t know which. Then she passed uncomplimentary remarks on my mustache and pushed me back to the boat with a revolver. She told me never come back.”