“Whenever a quarrel arises,” explained Mr. Bryan, “it will be submitted to a Board.  Who will be on this Board, in addition to myself, I cannot as yet say.  But it’s of no consequence.  Whenever a case is submitted to the Board it will think it over for three years.  It will then announce its decision—­if any.  After that, if any one nation refuses to submit, its ports will be bombarded by the Peace Fleet.”

Rapturous expressions of approval greeted Mr. Bryan’s explanation.

“But I don’t understand,” said the Negro President, turning his puzzled face to Mr. Bryan.  “Would some of these ships be British ships?”

“Oh, certainly.  In view of the dominant size of the British Navy about one-quarter of all the ships would be British ships.”

“And the sailors British sailors?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Bryan, “except that they would be wearing international breeches—­a most important point.”

“And if the Board, made up of all sorts of people, were to give a decision against England, then these ships—­British ships with British sailors—­would be sent to bombard England itself.”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Bryan.  “Isn’t it beautifully simple?  And to guarantee its working properly,” he continued, “just in case we have to use the fleet against England, we’re going to ask Admiral Jellicoe himself to take command.”

The Negro President slowly shook his head.

“Marse Bryan,” he said, “you notice what I say.  I know Marse Jellicoe.  I done seen him lots of times when he was just a lieutenant, down in the harbour of Port au Prince.  If youse folks put up this proposition to Marse Jellicoe, he’ll just tell the whole lot of you to go plumb to—­”

But the close of the sentence was lost by a sudden interruption.  A servant entered with a folded telegram in his hand.

“For me?” said Mr. Bryan, with a winning smile.

“For the President of Haiti, sir,” said the man.

The President took the telegram and opened it clumsily with his finger and thumb amid a general silence.  Then he took from his pocket and adjusted a huge pair of spectacles with a horn rim and began to read.

“Well, I ’clare to goodness!” he said.

“Who is it from ?” said Mr. Bryan.  “Is it anything about me?”

The Negro President shook his head.

“It’s from Haiti,” he said, “from my military secretary.”

“Read it, read it,” cried the company.

“Come back home right away,” read out the Negro President, word by word. “Everything is all right again.  Joint British and American Naval Squadron came into harbour yesterday, landed fifty bluejackets and one midshipman.  Perfect order.  Banks open.  Bars open.  Mule cars all running again.  Things fine.  Going to have big dance at your palace.  Come right back.”

The Negro President paused.

“Gentlemen,” he said, in a voice of great and deep relief, “this lets me out.  I guess I won’t stay for the rest of the discussion.  I’ll start for Haiti.  I reckon there’s something in this Armed Force business after all.”