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, 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