enor Ignacio Ramada, prefect of the department of Ayacucho, tapped his red lips under his mustache to discourage an overpowering yawn. It was mid siesta, high noon. He had been routed out of profound slumber by his cholo—boy—and presented with a long, impressive document with a red seal. Now he stood in the Salle des Armes of the governor's mansion, holding in his hand the letter of introduction from the presidente of the Lima Sociedad de Geográfico, very much impressed even amid his sleepiness by the red seal of the Sociedad and by the creaking new equipment of his callers.
“How, señores, can I assist in such a glorious undertaking?” he inquired in Spanish.
“We need guides,” explained Prof. Demetriovich, who was the linguist of the party.
“Where does your journey carry you, cabelleros?” inquired the official, crackling the parchment in his hand.
“To the region beyond the Mantaro, called the Valley of the Rio Infiernillo.”
Señor Ramada came out of his sleepiness with a sort of start.
“No!”
“Yes.”
The prefect looked at his guests.
“Señores, no one goes there.”
Pethwick, the engineer, smiled.
“If the region were quite well known, Señor Ramada, it would hold little attraction for a geographical exploration party.”
“Well, that's true,” agreed the prefect after a moment's thought, “but it will be quite difficult to get a guide for that place; in fact—” here he swept his visitors with a charming smile—“the better a man knows that region, the farther he keeps away from it. Seriously, gentlemen, why not explore more hospitable locality, where one can find a comfortable inn at night and procure relays of llamas whenever necessary, for your baggage?”
Pethwick smiled friendlily.
“We did think of exploring the suburbs of Lima, but the street service was so bad—”
“Do you read novels?” inquired Standifer, the young secretary of the expedition.
“Why—yes,” admitted the prefect, taken aback. “I am fond of Cisneros, Lavalle, Arestegui—”
The secretary pressed his lips together, nodded disdainfully and without further remark looked away through the entrance into the diamond-like brilliance of tropical sunshine in mountainous regions.
The prefect stared. “Señor,” he said rather sharply, “if you do not approve my literary taste—”
Pethwick stepped to the little Spaniard's side and whispered quickly:
“Overlook it, señor, overlook it. Literature is a tender point with him. He has lost one hundred and fifty-four dollars and forty-seven cents on an unprofitable literary venture. In fact, he is a young author.”
He nodded confidentially at the prefect.
The official, with Latin delicacy, nodded back and patted Pethwick's arm to show that all was again well. Pethwick then said aloud:
“So we shall have to try to find our own way into the Valley de Rio Infiernillo?”
Ramada looked worried. Presently he slapped his hand on a mahogany sword cabinet that glowed warmly in the subdued light of the salle.
“Señores!” he cried, rattling the letter of introduction with his left hand. “It shall never be said that the prefect of the department of Ayacucho did not exert plenary powers to aid in disclosing to the world the enormous riches of his province and his native land!”
“So we may expect something?” inquired M. Demetriovich.
“I have the power to force some one to go with you,” dramatically announced Ramada.
“Whom?” asked Standifer, looking around.
“Naturally my authority doesn't extend over freemen,” conditioned the prefect.
“Your slaves?” inquired the secretary.
“Sir,” announced the prefect, “wherever the Peruvian banner waves, Freedom smiles!”
“What at?” inquired the literal secretary.
As the governor was about to take new offense the old Rumanian hastily inquired:
“Whom do we get, Señor Ramada?”
“Señores, a garroting has been widely and I believe successfully advertised to take place on the fifth of August. If I may say it, caballeros, my political career depends in great measure on meeting fully and completely the thrills offered by the prospectuses. The executions will be followed by a bull-fight. It was, gentlemen, if I may say it, it was to be the turning point of my political career, upon the prestige of which I meant to make my race for the presidency of our republic.
“Gentlemen, a time comes in the life of every statesman when he can sacrifice his country to his personal ambition, or his personal ambition to his country. That moment has now come in the life of Gonzales Pizarro Ramada. Gentlemen, I make it. Gentlemen, I am going to remit the extreme penalty placed by the cortes upon a murderer and a highwayman and permit them to go with you, gentlemen, as guides into the Valle de Rio Infiernillo.”
Pethwick, who had been smiling with immense enjoyment at this rodomontade, straightened his face.
“A murderer and a highwayman!”
“Charming fellows,” assured the prefect. “I often walk down to the carcel and converse with them. Such chic! Such original ideas on the confiscation of money—really very entertaining!”
The expedition looked at the eulogist a moment.
“Give us a minute to talk this over, Señor Ramada?” requested M. Demetriovich.
The prefect made the accentuated bow of a politician, adding that the republic would be proud to furnish chains and handcuffs to guarantee that her sons did their duty in the discharge of a patriotic function.
The three gentlemen of the DeLong Geographical Expedition spent an anxious five minutes in debate.
Presently Pethwick called:
“Señor Ramada, are you absolutely sure we cannot procure guides who are less—questionable for this journey?”
