For over forty years, in one part of the world or another, old man Marshallhad, served his country as a United States consul. He had been appointed byLincoln. For a quarter of a century that fact was his distinction. It was nowhis epitaph. But in former years, as each new administration succeeded the old,it had again and again saved his official head. When victorious and voraciousplace-hunters, searching the map of the world for spoils, dug out hishiding-place and demanded his consular sign as a reward for a younger and moreaggressive party worker, the ghost of the dead President protected him. In theState Department, Marshall had become a tradition. “You can’t touch Him!” theState Department would say; “why, HE was appointed by Lincoln!”Secretly, for this weapon against the hungry headhunters, the department wasinfinitely grateful. Old man Marshall was a consul after its own heart. Like asoldier, he was obedient, disciplined; wherever he was sent, there, withoutquestion, he would go. Never against exile, against ill-health, against climatedid he make complaint. Nor when he was moved on and down to make way for somene’er-do-well with influence, with a brother-in-law in the Senate, with acousin owning a newspaper, with rich relatives who desired him to drink himselfto death at the expense of the government rather than at their own, did old manMarshall point to his record as a claim for more just treatment.
And it had been an excellent record. His official reports, in a quaint, statelyhand, were models of English; full of information, intelligent, valuable, wellobserved. And those few of his countrymen, who stumbled upon him in theout-of-the-world places to which of late he had been banished, wrote of him tothe department in terms of admiration and awe. Never had he or his friendspetitioned for promotion, until it was at last apparent that, save for hisrecord and the memory of his dead patron, he had no friends. But, still in thedepartment the tradition held and, though he was not advanced, he was notdismissed.
“If that old man’s been feeding from the public trough ever since the CivilWar,” protested a “practical” politician, “it seems to me, Mr. Secretary, thathe’s about had his share. Ain’t it time he give some one else a bite? Some ofus that has, done the work, that has borne the brunt——”
“This place he now holds,” interrupted the Secretary of State suavely, “is onehardly 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 wesent there, three resigned within a month and the other three died ofyellow-fever. Still, if you insist——”
The practical politician reconsidered hastily. “I’m not the sort,” heprotested, “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, “republicsare ungrateful.”
“I don’t quite get that,” said the practical politician.
Of Porto Banos, of the Republic of Colombia, where as consul Mr. Marshall wasupholding the dignity of the United States, little could be said except that itpossessed a sure harbor. When driven from the Caribbean Sea by stress ofweather, the largest of ocean tramps, and even battle-ships, could find in itsprotecting arms of coral a safe shelter. But, as young Mr. Aiken, the wirelessoperator, pointed out, unless driven by a hurricane and the fear of death, noone ever visited it. Back of the ancient wharfs, that dated from the days whenPorto Banos was a receiver of stolen goods for buccaneers and pirates,