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."

If Henry Marshall brought content to the exiles of Porto Banos, there
was little in return that Porto Banos could give to him. Magazines and
correspondents in six languages kept him in touch with those foreign
lands in which he had represented his country, but of the country he had
represented, newspapers and periodicals showed him only too clearly
that in forty years it had grown away from him, had changed beyond
recognition.

When last he had called at the State Department, he had been made to
feel he was a man without a country, and when he visited his home town
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 grow