And accordin' to the Hon. Pete this Cap. Yohness party is an American who hails from New York. Don't sound reasonable, I admit, with a monicker like that, but I let the old boy spin along. Yohness had gone to Cuba years ago, way back before the Spanish-American war. I take it he was part of a filibusterin' outfit that was runnin' in guns and ammunition for the Cubans to use against the Spaniards. In fact, he mentions Dynamite Johnny O'Brien as the leader of the crowd. I think that was the name. Listens like it might have been, anyway.

Well, he says this Senor Yohness is some reckless cut-up himself, for he not only runs the blockade of Spanish warships and lands his stuff, but then has the nerve to stick around the island and even take a little trip into Havana. Seems that was some stunt, too, for if he'd been caught at it he'd have found a swift finish against the nearest wall.

Course, he had to go in disguise, but he was handicapped by havin' red hair. Not so vivid as mine, the Senor a.s.sures me, but red enough so he wouldn't be mistaken easy for a Spaniard. He'd have gotten away with the act, too, if he hadn't capped it by takin' the wildest chances anybody could have thought up.

While he's ramblin' around Havana, takin' in all the sights and rubbin'

elbows every minute with men who'd ask no better sport than giving him a permanent chest puncture if they'd known who he was, what does he do but get tangled up in a love affair. Even if his head hadn't been specially priced for more pesos than you could put in a sugar barrel, this was a hot time for any American to be lallygaggin' around the ladies in that particular burg. For the Spanish knew all about where the reconcentrados were getting their firearms from and they were good and sore on us. But little details like that don't seem to bother El Capitan Yohness a bit.

When he gets in line with an oh boy! smile from behind a window grill he smiles back and comes around for an encore. That's the careless kind of a Yank he is.

What makes it worse, though, is the fact that this special window happens to be in the Governor's Palace. And the lady herself! The Honorable Pedro shudders as he relates it. She is none other than la Senorita Mario, a niece of the Governor General.

She must have had misbehavin' eyes and a kittenish disposition, for she seems to fall for this disguised New Yorker at first sight. Most likely it was on account of his red hair. Anyway, after one or two long distance exchanges she drops out a note arranging a twosome in the palace gardens by moonlight. It's a way they have, I understand. And this Yohness guy, he don't do a thing but keep the date. Course, he must have known that as a war risk he'd have been quoted as payin' about a thousand per cent. premium, but he takes the chance.

It ain't a case of bein' able to stroll in any time, either. In order to make it he has to conceal himself in the shrubbery before sundown, when the general public is chased out of the grounds and a guard set at the gates. Perhaps it was worth it, though, for Don Pedro says the Senorita Donna Mario is a lovely lady; at least, she was then.

Anyway, the two of 'em pulled it off successful, and they was snuggled up on a marble bench gettin' real well acquainted--maybe callin' each other by their first names and whisperin' mushy sentiments in the moonshine--when the heavy villain enters with stealthy tread.

It seems that Donna Mario had been missed from the Palace. Finally the word gets to Uncle, and although he's a grizzly old pirate, he can remember back when he was young himself. Maybe he had one of his sporty secretaries in mind, or some gay young first lieutenant. However it was, he connected with a first-cla.s.s hunch that on a night like this, if the lovely Donna Mario had strayed out anywhere she would sooner or later camp down on a marble bench.

Whether he picked the right garden seat first rattle out of the box, or made two or three misses, I don't know. But when he does crash in he finds the pair just going to a clinch. He ain't the kind of an uncle, either, who would stand off and chuckle a minute before interruptin'

with a mild "Tut--tut, now, young folks!" No. He's a reg'lar movie drama uncle. He gets purple in the gills. He snorts through his mustache. He gurgles out the Spanish for "Ha, ha!". Then he unlimbers a sword like a corn-knife, reaches out a rough hairy paw, and proceeds to yank our young hero rudely from the fond embrace. Just like that.

And here again I missed a detail or two. I couldn't make out if it was the pink thatch of Yohness that gave him away, or whether Uncle could tell an American just by the feel of his neck. But the old boy got wise right away.

"What," says he, like he was usin' the words as a throat gargle. "A curs-ed Gr-r-ringo! For that you shall both die."

Which was just where, like most movie uncles, he overdid the part.

Yohness might not have been particular whether he went on livin' or not. He hadn't acted as though he cared much. But he wasn't going to let a nice girl like the Donna Mario get herself carved up by an impulsive relative who wore fuzzy face whiskers and a yellow sash instead of a vest.

"Ah, ditch the tragic stuff, Old Sport, while I sketch out how it was all my fault," says he, or words to that effect.

"G-r-r-r!" says Uncle, slashin' away enthusiastic with his sword.

If our hero had been a second or so late in his moves there would be little left to add. But heroes never are. And when this Cap. Yohness party got into action he was a reg'lar bear-cat. The wicked steel merely swished through the s.p.a.ce he'd just left and before Uncle could get in another swing something heavy landed on him and he was being gripped in four places. Before the old boy knew what was happening, too, that yellow sash had been unwound and he'd been tied up as neat as an express package. All he lacked to go on the wagon was an address tag and a "Prepaid" label gummed on his tummy.

"Sorry," says Yohness, rollin' him into the shrubbery with his toe, "but you mustn't act so mussy when the young lady has a caller."

"Ah! Eso es espantoso!" says Donna Mario, meaning that now he had spilled the beans for fair. "You must fly. I must--we must both flee."

"Oh, very well," says Yohness. "That is, if the fleeing is good."

"Here! Quick!" says she, grabbin' up the long cloak Uncle had been wearing before he started something he couldn't finish. "And this also,"

she adds, handin' Yohness a military cap with a lot of gold braid on it.

"We will go together. The guards know me. They will think you are my uncle. Wait! I will call the carriage, as if for our evening drive."

"Now that," says I, as Don Pedro gets to this part of the yarn, "was what I call good work done. Made a clean getaway, did they?"

He nods, and goes on to tell how, when they got to the city limits, El Capitan chucked the driver and footman off the box, took the reins himself and drove until near daybreak, when he dropped the fair Donna Mario at the house of an old friend and then beat it down the pike until he saw a chance to leave the outfit and make a break into the woods.

"And I expect he was willin' to call it a night after that, eh?" says I.

"Reg'lar thrill hound, wasn't he? What became of him?"

"Ah!" says Don Pedro. "It is for that I come to you."

"Oh, yes, so you have," says I. "I'd most forgotten. Yes, yes! You still have the idea I can trace out Yohness for you? Suppose I could, though, how would you be sure it was the same one, after so many years? Got any mark on him that----"

"Listen," says Don Pedro. "El Capitan Yohness possesses a ring of peculiar setting--pale gold--a large dark ruby in it. This was given him that night by the Senorita Donna Mario. He swore to her never to part with it until they should meet again. They never have, nor will. She is no more. For years she lived hidden, in fear of her life. Then the war came. Her uncle was driven back to Spain. Later her friend died, but she left to Donna Mario her estate, many acres of valuable sugar plantation, and the house, Casa Fuerta. It is this estate which Donna Mario in turn has willed to her valiant lover. I am one of the executors. So I ask you where is El Capitan Yohness?"

"Yes, I know you do," says I. "But why ask me? How do you hook up the Corrugated Trust with any such wild----"

"See," says Don Pedro, producin' a yellow old letter. "This came to Donna Mario just before the war. It is on the note paper of your firm."

"Why, that's so!" says I. "Must have been when we were in the old building, long before my time. But as far as--Say, the name ain't Yohness. It's Jones, plain as day."

"Yes, Yohness," says Don Pedro, spellin' it out loud, "Y-o-n-e-s. You see, in Spanish we call it Yohness."

He don't say it just like that, either, but that's as near as I can get it. Anyway, you'd never recognize it as Jones.

"Well," I goes on, "I don't know of anybody around the place now who would fit your description. In fact, I don't believe there's anybody by the name of--Yes, there is one Jones here, but he can't be the party. He isn't that kind of a Jones."

"But if he is Senor Jones--who knows?" insists Don Pedro.

Then I has to stop and grin. Huh! Old Jonesey bein' suspected of ever pullin' stuff like that. Say, why not have him in and tax him with it.

"Just a sec.," says I. "You can take a look yourself."

I finds Jonesey with his head in a file drawer, as usual, and without spillin' anything of the joke I leads him in and lines him up in front of Don Pedro.

"Listen, Jonesey," says I. "This gentleman comes from Havana. Were you ever there?"

"Why, ye-e-e-es. Once I was," says Jonesey, sort of draggy, as if tryin'

to remember.

"You were?" says I. "How? When?"

"It--it was a long time ago," says Jonesey.

"Perdone," breaks in Don Pedro. "Were you not known as Senor El Capitan?"

"Me?" says Jonesey. "Why--I--some might have called me that."

"Great guns!" I gasps. "See here, Jonesey; you don't mean to say you've got the ring too?"

"The ring?" says he, tryin' to look blank. But at the same time I notice his hand go up to his shirt front sort of jerky.

"The ring of the Senorita Donna Mario," cuts in Don Pedro eager.

That don't get any hysterical motions out of him, though. He just stands there, lookin' from one to the other of us slow and dazed, as if something was tricklin' down into his brain. Once or twice he rubs a dingy hand over his bald head. It seemed to help.

"Donna Mario, Donna Mario," he repeats, half under his breath.