In the daily life of Porto Banos, waiting for the return of the
train, and betting if it would return, was the chief interest. Each
night the consuls, the foreign residents, the wireless operator,
the manager of the rusty railroad met for dinner. There at the head
of the long table, by virtue of his years, of his courtesy and
distinguished manner, of his office, Mr. Marshall presided. Of the
little band of exiles he was the chosen ruler. His rule was gentle.
By force of example he had made existence in Porto Banos more
possible. For women and children Porto Banos was a death-trap, and
before "old man Marshall" came there had been no influence to
remind the enforced bachelors of other days.

They had lost interest, had grown lax, irritable, morose. Their
white duck was seldom white. Their cheeks were unshaven. When the
sun sank into the swamp and the heat still turned Porto Banos into
a Turkish bath, they threw dice on the greasy tables of the Cafe
Bolivar for drinks. The petty gambling led to petty quarrels; the
drinks to fever. The coming of Mr. Marshall changed that. His
standard of life, his tact, his worldly wisdom, his cheerful
courtesy, his fastidious personal neatness shamed the younger men;
the desire to please him, to, stand well in his good opinion,
brought back pride and self-esteem.

The lieutenant of her Majesty's gun-boat PLOVER noted the change.

"Used to be," he exclaimed, "you couldn't get out of the Cafe
Bolivar without some one sticking a knife in you; now it's a
debating club. They all sit round a table and listen to an old
gentleman talk world politics."