damp shoulders. ``I can't stand it. I'm parching.''

``Wait a minute,'' interrupted MacWilliams, leaning forward
and looking into the night. ``Some one's coming.'' There was a
sound down the road of hoofs and the rattle of the land-crabs as
they scrambled off into the bushes, and two men on horseback came
suddenly out of the darkness and drew rein in the light from the
open door. The first was General Mendoza, the leader of the
Opposition in the Senate, and the other, his orderly. The
General dropped his Panama hat to his knee and bowed in the
saddle three times.

``Good-evening, your Excellency,'' said Clay, rising. ``Tell
that peon to get my coat, will you?'' he added, turning to
Langham. Langham clapped his hands, and the clanging of a guitar
ceased, and their servant and cook came out from the back of the
hut and held the General's horse while he dismounted. ``Wait
until I get you a chair,'' said Clay. ``You'll find those steps
rather bad for white duck.''

``I am fortunate in finding you at home,'' said the officer,
smiling, and showing his white teeth. ``The telephone is not
working. I tried at the club, but I could not call you.''

``It's the storm, I suppose,'' Clay answered, as he struggled
into his jacket. ``Let me offer you something to drink.'' He
entered the house, and returned with several bottles on a tray
and a bundle of cigars. The Spanish-American poured himself
out a glass of water, mixing it with Jamaica rum, and said,
smiling again, ``It is a saying of your countrymen that when a