he or his friends petitioned for promotion, until it was
at last apparent that, save for his record and the memory of his dead
patron, he had no friends. But, still in the department the tradition
held and, though he was not advanced, he was not dismissed.

"If that old man's been feeding from the public trough ever since the
Civil War," protested a "practical" politician, "it seems to me, Mr.
Secretary, that he's about had his share. Ain't it time he give some
one else a bite? Some of us that has, done the work, that has borne the
brunt----"

"This place he now holds," interrupted the Secretary of State suavely,
"is one hardly commensurate with services like yours. I can't pronounce
the name of it, and I'm not sure just where it is, but I see that, of
the last six consuls we sent there, three resigned within a month and
the other three died of yellow-fever. Still, if you insist----"

The practical politician reconsidered hastily. "I'm not the sort,"
he protested, "to turn out a man appointed by our martyred President.
Besides, he's so old now, if the fever don't catch him, he'll die of old
age, anyway."

The Secretary coughed uncomfortably. "And they say," he murmured,
"republics are ungrateful."

"I don't quite get that," said the practical politician.

Of Porto Banos, of the Republic of Colombia, where as consul Mr.
Marshall was upholding the dignity of the United States, little could
be said except that it possessed a sure harbor. When driven from the
Caribbean Sea by stress of weather, the largest of ocean tramps, and
even battle-ships, could find in its protecting arms of coral a safe
shelter. But, as young Mr. Aiken, the wireless operator, pointed out,
unless driven by a hurricane and the fear of death, no one ever visited
it. Back of the ancient wharfs, that dated from the days when Porto
Banos was a receiver of stolen goods for buccaneers and pirates, were
rows of thatched huts, streets, according to the season, of dust or
mud, a few iron-barred, jail-like barracks, customhouses, municipal
buildings, and the whitewashed adobe houses of the consuls. The backyard
of the town was a swamp. Through this at five each morning a rusty
engine pulled a train of flat cars to the base of the mountains, and, if
meanwhile the rails had not disappeared into the swamp, at five in the
evening brought back the flat cars laden with odorous coffeesacks.

In the daily life of Porto Banos, waiting for the return of the train,