“You’ve got some cheek, Freddy,” was all she could bring herself to say.

“My dear Lola, he can take it or leave it,” the Commissioner had replied, sulkily.

His Reverence never found himself in the odious dilemma of either taking it or leaving it, for the lady was wise enough not to divulge so ignoble a proposition.

But now, while the good priest uttered a few parting platitudes of condolence, the other was revolving in his mind how negotiations—­direct negotiations, this time—­could be opened up.  He needed fifteen pounds; well, one might be able to do a little juggling with the Club money for that part of the business.  It was necessary, above all, to devise some means whereby the Nicaraguan Government might be induced to keep him at his old post.  Here was Torquemada.  How could the fellow be turned to account?

“The Nuncio!” he suddenly thought.  A Catholic republic like Nicaragua was sure to have a Papal Nuncio whatever that might be; and if he became a convert to the official faith of that country, the Nuncio would be delighted and might whisper in the ear of the President a few words commending his act and requesting that so good a servant of the Church should not be despoiled of his post.  And if the President, himself a Catholic, could be brought to share this view, then he, Freddy Parker, could snap his fingers at the machinations of Senor Vergara’s successor.

He decided to show some signs of devotion to what he had been accustomed to call the grossest of superstitions; to reveal symptoms of latent Roman proclivities.  Grief seemed to have sharpened his wits, for an inspiration came to him.  After the sordid and melancholy details of the funeral had been discussed yet again—­it was to take place as soon as ever the state of the sky would allow of it—­Mr. Parker, pointing to the blackened world outside, made an oracular remark.

“Something must be done,” he said.

His companion agreed, very heartily.  But soon he drew a deep sigh.  How could a volcanic eruption be stopped?  In other words, what must be done?

“Let me suggest something, parroco.  Why not organize a procession at once, a penitential procession?  Such things take place during eruptions on the mainland.  Why not here?”

It was the most tactful and diplomatic proposal that the Commissioner had ever made.  A thundering good tip, in fact.  How proud his Lola would have been, had she heard him make it!  A flash of inspiration—­and he was actually following it up.  The effect was instantaneous.  At the sound of the word “procession” the other’s thin lips relaxed, and into his ferrety eyes there came a gentler look.  He was pleased, infinitely pleased.  The Protestant Commissioner betraying only too plainly the heart of a Catholic—­that augured well.  But difficulties, apparently insurmountable, presented themselves.

“That thought, Signor Parker, coming from you, gives me pleasure beyond words.  But I question whether a procession can be formed.  Even the priests, most of them, would not care to attend.  As to the populace—­who is going to risk his life in the midst of this calamity?  We might all be choked to death.  Not that I would hesitate to play my becoming part!”