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My Buried Treasure
by
Aiken, the wireless operator, grinned derisively.
“At the service of THIS senator, they are!” he answered. “They call him the ‘king-maker,’ the man behind the throne.”
“But in your country,” protested the Frenchman, “there is no throne. I thought your president was elected by the people?”
“That’s what the people think,” answered Aiken. “In God’s country,” he explained, “the trusts want a rich man in the Senate, with the same interests as their own, to represent them. They chose Hanley. He picked out of the candidates for the presidency the man he thought would help the interests. He nominated him, and the people voted for him. Hanley is what we call a ‘boss.'”
The Frenchman looked inquiringly at Marshall.
“The position of the boss is the more dangerous,” said Marshall gravely, “because it is unofficial, because there are no laws to curtail his powers. Men like Senator Hanley are a menace to good government. They see in public office only a reward for party workers.”
“That’s right,” assented Aiken. “Your forty years’ service, Mr. Consul, wouldn’t count with Hanley. If he wanted your job, he’d throw you out as quick as he would a drunken cook.”
Mr. Marshall flushed painfully, and the French consul hastened to interrupt.
“Then, let us pray,” he exclaimed, with fervor, “that the hurricane has sunk the SERAPIS, and all on board.”
Two hours later, the SERAPIS, showing she had met the hurricane and had come out second best, steamed into the harbor.
Her owner was young Herbert Livingstone, of Washington. He once had been in the diplomatic service, and, as minister to The Hague, wished to return to it. In order to bring this about he had subscribed liberally to the party campaign fund.
With him, among other distinguished persons, was the all-powerful Hanley. The kidnapping of Hanley for the cruise, in itself, demonstrated the ability of Livingstone as a diplomat. It was the opinion of many that it would surely lead to his appointment as a minister plenipotentiary. Livingstone was of the same opinion. He had not lived long in the nation’s capital without observing the value of propinquity. How many men he knew were now paymasters, and secretaries of legation, solely because those high in the government met them daily at the Metropolitan Club, and preferred them in almost any other place. And if, after three weeks as his guest on board what the newspapers called his floating palace, the senator could refuse him even the prize, legation of Europe, there was no value in modest merit. As yet, Livingstone had not hinted at his ambition. There was no need. To a statesman of Hanley’s astuteness, the largeness of Livingstone’s contribution to the campaign fund was self-explanatory.
After her wrestling-match with the hurricane, all those on board the SERAPIS seemed to find in land, even in the swamp land of Porto Banos, a compelling attraction. Before the anchors hit the water, they were in the launch. On reaching shore, they made at once for the consulate. There were many cables they wished to start on their way by wireless; cables to friends, to newspapers, to the government.
Jose, the Colombian clerk, appalled by the unprecedented invasion of visitors, of visitors so distinguished, and Marshall, grateful for a chance to serve his fellow-countrymen, and especially his countrywomen, were ubiquitous, eager, indispensable. At Jose’s desk the great senator, rolling his cigar between his teeth, was using, to Jose’s ecstasy, Jose’s own pen to write a reassuring message to the White House. At the consul’s desk a beautiful creature, all in lace and pearls, was struggling to compress the very low opinion she held of a hurricane into ten words. On his knee, Henry Cairns, the banker, was inditing instructions to his Wall Street office, and upon himself Livingstone had taken the responsibility of replying to the inquiries heaped upon Marshall’s desk, from many newspapers.
It was just before sunset, and Marshall produced his tea things, and the young person in pearls and lace, who was Miss Cairns, made tea for the women, and the men mixed gin and limes with tepid water. The consul apologized for proposing a toast in which they could not join. He begged to drink to those who had escaped the perils of the sea. Had they been his oldest and nearest friends, his little speech could not have been more heart-felt and sincere. To his distress, it moved one of the ladies to tears, and in embarrassment he turned to the men.