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repeated, looking down at his trouser knees, which were wet, and gazing critically at a streak of street spatter along one sleeve.
    He was a neatly mustached, square-jawed man in a black frock coat and a top hat, which had been knocked forward onto his forehead by his collision with me. He removed his hat, examined its shiny black brim, and resettled it on his head.
    He was far more concerned with his hat than with me, but as he adjusted his clothing he exposed a pistol tucked into his waistcoat pocket. This was the sort of small pistol with a large bore most people keep at home in a rosewood case.
    Ben gave me his hand and helped me to my feet.
    â€œAre you hurt, my friend?” the gentleman asked warmly.
    I said that of course I was not hurt, not wanting to have anything to do with this armed stranger.
    â€œYou’re bleeding,” Ben confided to me.
    My teeth had bit into my lip, and I spat some blood onto the rutted, muddy street. A small speck of the blood flew wide, and splashed on the toe of the gentleman’s boot. He said, with every evidence of trying to remain patient, “For God’s sake.”
    I was sure that I had made a fatal mistake. I had walked right into this city full of bustle and violence, encountered a man who carried what was probably a loaded pistol—and I insulted him by spitting on his boot.
    â€œMy apologies, sir,” I said, my voice breathless. I tried to take comfort in the weight of my knife at my hip.
    He was still not satisfied with his hat, taking it off, readjusting it.
    â€œPlease do accept my apology, sir,” I offered again.
    â€œWe’re just in from Panama City,” said Ben. “On the steamer California , fourteen days’ passage.” He beamed, making such a display of friendly conversation that I felt thankful for my friend’s breezy good cheer.
    â€œIn Panama City they have more bandits than rats,” I exaggerated, implying that Ben and I had hacked our way through an army of armed and desperate men. My intention was to make us sound tough, and not appear to be a couple of rank novices.
    The man showed his teeth, white and even under his mustache, and smiled as he said, “Oh, in California we have cannibal-bandits, an entire army of them. They roast up their victims, and serve them in a kind of chowder.”
    Ben gave an easy laugh, but I never know what to do when I’m being made the object of rough humor.
    â€œNevertheless,” continued the gentleman thoughtfully, “two young men fresh from the jungle may prove useful.”
    The clean-shaven driver was sorting out his reins, and I stepped over to hold the nervous mule steady, speaking soothingly to the sweating animal. Already dray-company boys were fitting on new wheels, with the help of mechanically gifted bystanders, but the animals were still quite unhappy. The bearded driver’s animals shook their harness and he swore at them, but the clean-shaven driver was the picture of professionalism.
    Perhaps my willingness to help calm the mules resolved some question in the gentleman’s mind. Ben and I stooped to heft our steamer trunk out of the way of a dray wagon full of barrels, but the armed stranger put a hand to the pistol in his pocket, perhaps to check that his weapon was still there, and gave a sharp whistle. Four boys gathered, each dirty but looking both well-fed and eager. They all seemed to know him, and were anxious to help.
    It was hard to read the intention behind the stranger’s smile when he looked back at us and said, “You’re coming with me.”

CHAPTER 20
    As we walked through the hectic streets, he gave us handsomely engraved cards that announced him as “Horatio Castleman, New York and London, theatricals.”
    He sat us down in the dining room of the Hotel Olympian and ordered steak and potatoes for the two of us, with champagne being served at the astonishingly high price of one dollar per glass. The dining