, the Jamaican waiter-boys ran relay races.

After the dinner, the Jamaican waiter-boys proving too slow, the
dinner-party in a body adjourned to Angelina's, and when later, Major
Aintree moved across the street to the night train to Las Palmas, he
moved unsteadily.

Young Standish of the Canal Zone police, who, though but twenty-six,
was a full corporal, was for that night on duty as "train guard," and
was waiting at the rear steps of the last car. As Aintree approached
the steps he saw indistinctly a boyish figure in khaki, and, mistaking
it for one of his own men, he clasped the handrail for support, and
halted frowning.

Observing the condition of the officer the policeman also frowned, but
in deference to the uniform, slowly and with reluctance raised his hand
to his sombrero. The reluctance was more apparent than the salute. It
was less of a salute than an impertinence.

Partly out of regard for his rank, partly from temper, chiefly from
whiskey, Aintree saw scarlet.

"When you s'lute your s'perior officer," he shouted, "you s'lute him
quick. You unnerstan', you s'lute him quick! S'lute me again," he
commanded, "and s'lute me damn quick."

Standish remained motionless. As is the habit of policemen over all
the world, his thumbs were stuck in his belt. He answered without
offense, in tones matter-of-fact and calm.

"You are not my superior officer," he said.

It was the calmness that irritated Aintree. His eyes sought for the
infantryman's cap and found a sombrero.

"You damned leatherneck," he began, "I'll report--"

"I'm not a marine, either," interrupted Standish. "I'm a policeman.
Move on," he ordered, "you're keeping these people waiting."

Others of the dinner-party formed a flying wedge around Aintree and
crowded him up the steps and into a seat and sat upon him. Ten minutes
later, when Standish made his rounds of the cars, Aintree saw him
approaching. He had a vague recollection that he had been insulted,
and by a policeman.

"You!" he called, and so loudly that all in the car turned, "I'm going
to report you, going to report you for insolence. What's your name?"

Looking neither at Aintree nor at the faces turned toward him, Standish
replied as though Aintree had asked him what time it was.

"Standish," he said, "corporal, shield number 226, on train guard." He
continued down the aisle.

"I'll remember you," Aintree shouted.

But in the hot, glaring dawn of the morning after,