PAGE 19
My Buried Treasure
by
Livingstone, hovering at his side, asked sympathetically: “Have they answered your cable, sir?”
“They have,” said Hanley gruffly.
“Was it–was it satisfactory?” pursued the diplomat.
“It WAS,” said the senator, with emphasis.
Far from discouraged, Livingstone continued his inquiries.
“And when,” he asked eagerly, “are you going to tell him?”
“Now!” said the senator.
The guests were leaving the ship. When all were seated in the admiral’s steam launch, the admiral descended the accommodation ladder and himself picked up the tiller ropes.
“Mr. Marshall,” he called, “when I bring the launch broadside to the ship and stop her, you will stand ready to receive the consul’s salute.”
Involuntarily, Marshall uttered an exclamation of protest. He had forgotten that on leaving the war-ship, as consul, he was entitled to seven guns. Had he remembered, he would have insisted that the ceremony be omitted. He knew that the admiral wished to show his loyalty, knew that his old friend was now paying him this honor only as a rebuke to Hanley. But the ceremony was no longer an honor. Hanley had made of it a mockery. It served only to emphasize what had been taken from him. But, without a scene, it now was too late to avoid it. The first of the seven guns had roared from the bow, and, as often he had stood before, as never he would so stand again, Marshall took his place at the gangway of the launch. His eyes were fixed on the flag, his gray head was uncovered, his hat was pressed above his heart.
For the first time since Hanley had left the consulate, he fell into sudden terror lest he might give way to his emotions. Indignant at the thought, he held himself erect. His face was set like a mask, his eyes were untroubled. He was determined they should not see that he was suffering.
Another gun spat out a burst of white smoke, a stab of flame. There was an echoing roar. Another and another followed. Marshall counted seven, and then, with a bow to the admiral, backed from the gangway.
And then another gun shattered the hot, heavy silence. Marshall, confused, embarrassed, assuming he had counted wrong, hastily returned to his place. But again before he could leave it, in savage haste a ninth gun roared out its greeting. He could not still be mistaken. He turned appealingly to his friend. The eyes of the admiral were fixed upon the war-ship. Again a gun shattered the silence. Was it a jest? Were they laughing at him? Marshall flushed miserably. He gave a swift glance toward the others. They were smiling. Then it was a jest. Behind his back, something of which they all were cognizant was going forward. The face of Livingstone alone betrayed a like bewilderment to his own. But the others, who knew, were mocking him.
For the thirteenth time a gun shook the brooding swamp land of Porto Banos. And then, and not until then, did the flag crawl slowly from the mast-head. Mary Cairns broke the tenseness by bursting into tears. But Marshall saw that every one else, save she and Livingstone, were still smiling. Even the bluejackets in charge of the launch were grinning at him. He was beset by smiling faces. And then from the war-ship, unchecked, came, against all regulations, three long, splendid cheers.
Marshall felt his lips quivering, the warm tears forcing their way to his eyes. He turned beseechingly to his friend. His voice trembled.
“Charles,” he begged, “are they laughing at me?”
Eagerly, before the other would answer, Senator Hanley tossed his cigar into the water and, scrambling forward, seized Marshall by the hand.
“Mr. Marshall,” he cried, “our President has great faith in Abraham Lincoln’s judgment of men. And this salute means that this morning he appointed you our new minister to The Hague. I’m one of those politicians who keeps his word. I TOLD YOU I’d take your tin sign away from you by sunset. I’ve done it!”