in Vermont, he was looked upon as a Rip Van Winkle. Those of his boyhood
friends who were not dead had long thought of him as dead. And the
sleepy, pretty village had become a bustling commercial centre. In
the lanes where, as a young man, he had walked among wheatfields,
trolley-cars whirled between rows of mills and factories. The children
had grown to manhood, with children of their own.

Like a ghost, he searched for house after house, where once he had been
made welcome, only to find in its place a towering office building.
"All had gone, the old familiar faces." In vain he scanned even the shop
fronts for a friendly, homelike name. Whether the fault was his,
whether he would better have served his own interests than those of his
government, it now was too late to determine. In his own home, he was a
stranger among strangers. In the service he had so faithfully followed,
rank by rank, he had been dropped, until now he, who twice had been a
consul-general, was an exile, banished to a fever swamp. The great Ship
of State had dropped him overside, had "marooned" him, and sailed away.

Twice a day he walked along the shell road to the Cafe Bolivar, and back
again to the consulate. There, as he entered the outer office, Jose, the
Colombian clerk, would rise and bow profoundly.

"Any papers for me to sign, Jose?" the consul would ask.

"Not to-day, Excellency," the clerk would reply. Then Jose would return
to writing a letter to his lady-love; not that there was any-thing to
tell her, but because writing on the official paper of the consulate
gave him importance in his eyes, and in hers. And in the inner office
the consul would continue to gaze at the empty harbor, the empty coral
reefs, the empty, burning sky.

The little band of exiles were at second break fast when the wireless
man came in late to announce that a Red D. boat and the island of
Curacao had both reported a hurricane coming north. Also, that much
concern was felt for the safety of the yacht SERAPIS. Three days before,
in advance of her coming, she had sent a wireless to Wilhelmstad, asking
the captain of the port to reserve a berth for her. She expected to
arrive the following morning. But for forty-eight hours nothing had
been heard from her, and it was believed she had been overhauled by the
hurricane. Owing to the presence on board of Senator Hanley, the closest
friend of the new President, the man who had made him president, much
concern was felt