that come to me through him from San Francisco.  They never send a message unless they have brought some one to the office whom they want to impress, and who, they think, has money to invest in the Y.C.C. stock, and so we never go near the wire, except at three o’clock every afternoon.  And then generally only to say ‘How are you?’ or ‘It’s raining,’ or something like that.  I’ve been saying ’It’s raining,’ now for the last three months, but to-day I will say that the new consul has arrived.  That will be a pleasant surprise for the chap in Octavia, for he must be tired hearing about the weather.  He generally answers, ‘Here too,’ or ‘So you said,’ or something like that.  I don’t know what he says to the home office.  He’s brighter than I am, and that’s why they put him between the two ends.  He can see that the messages are transmitted more fully and more correctly, in a way to please possible subscribers.”

“Sort of copy editor,” suggested Albert.

“Yes, something of that sort, I fancy,” said Stedman.

They walked down to the little shed on the shore, where the Y.C.C. office was placed, at three that day, and Albert watched Stedman send off his message with much interest.  The “chap at Octavia,” on being informed that the American consul had arrived at Opeki, inquired, somewhat disrespectfully, “Is it a life sentence?”

“What does he mean by that?” asked Albert.

“I suppose,” said his secretary, doubtfully, “that he thinks it a sort of a punishment to be sent to Opeki.  I hope you won’t grow to think so.”

“Opeki is all very well,” said Gordon, “or it will be when we get things going our way.”

As they walked back to the office, Albert noticed a brass cannon, perched on a rock at the entrance to the harbor.  This had been put there by the last consul, but it had not been fired for many years.  Albert immediately ordered the two Bradleys to get it in order, and to rig up a flag-pole beside it, for one of his American flags, which they were to salute every night when they lowered it at sundown.

“And when we are not using it,” he said, “the King can borrow it to celebrate with, if he doesn’t impose on us too often.  The royal salute ought to be twenty-one guns, I think; but that would use up too much powder, so he will have to content himself with two.”

“Did you notice,” asked Stedman, that night, as they sat on the veranda of the consul’s house, in the moonlight, “how the people bowed to us as we passed?”

“Yes,” Albert said he had noticed it.  “Why?”

“Well, they never saluted me,” replied Stedman.  “That sign of respect is due to the show we made at the reception.”

“It is due to us, in any event,” said the consul, severely.  “I tell you, my secretary, that we, as the representatives of the United States Government, must be properly honored on this island.  We must become a power.  And we must do so without getting into trouble with the King.  We must make them honor him, too, and then as we push him up, we will push ourselves up at the same time.”