THE CONSUL'S DAUGHTER.

From the window of his chamber in the Hotel Trinidad, James Vincent Morrison looked upon the city of Rosa Blanca and cursed it for a hot, festering, vile-smelling tropic hole. Although he was clad only in B. V. D.'s, these were wringing wet, and perspiration was still oozing from his pores and irritating him as it trickled down his body. It was the hottest part of the day, 2 P.M., and everybody else was indulging in a siesta. Jim's body was too uncomfortable, and he had too much on his mind.

The window looked upon the Plaza of Rosa Blanca, capital city of the Central American republic of Santa Rosa. A hundred yards across the park he could see the palace of the president, a long, low plaster building set back in a garden and protected by a high brick and plaster wall, against which two sentries were leaning, probably asleep on their feet.

The Plaza was the business center of Rosa Blanca, but with the exception of colored folks sleeping on the benches of the park, no human being was in sight. There were a lot of mangy dogs wandering about, and a black and white goat.

So bright was the sun, reflected as it was by the white walls of the buildings, that it hurt Jim's eyes to look out, and the air was permeated by a subtle but unpleasant perfume which offended his nostrils.

Just the nasty capital of a rotten little banana republic, he reflected, and any white man who didn't leave by the first boat was a fool. He was a fool. He could have sailed on the fruit steamer this morning, and if it wasn't for Ellen he certainly would have done so.

For a week he had been lingering in Rosa Blanca--"White Rose," a lovely name for this pest hole--because Ellen Goring was here. Although she had indicated emphatically that she didn't want to marry him, he would hang around until she changed her mind; it might be for years and it might be forever.

Only seven days ago Jim Morrison had come down from the chief Morrison banana plantation to take the ship for New York. Although it had not been frightfully hot in the hills, it had been gosh-darned lonesome, for the manager and his wife, even if they were efficient banana raisers, were social duds; didn't even play bridge.

Coming down to Santa Rosa had been his father's idea; just a scheme to get him away from Gladys Glower of the Follies, with whom he hadn't been in love at all. Tom Morrison had told Jim it was time he got acquainted with the source of the family income, and had practically shipped him out of New York. Having been marooned among the banana trees for a month, he had driven down to Rosa Blanca a week ago and arrived at cocktail time. The next morning he was to start home.

Holding forth at the bar of the Hotel Trinidad was a fat man in whites; a soft, paunchy, loose-mouthed, blear-eyed old nuisance who was discussing American politics, expressing the dreariest blather in an unpleasant voice.

As Morrison was a newcomer the man had fixed on him, practically buttonholed him. After listening with growing impatience to his drool for a quarter of an hour, Jim lost his temper, something he lost easily, and expressed his opinion of bores so pungently and objectionably that the old man got furious and called him an ignorant young whippersnapper.

"I'd rather be that than a chattering superannuated ape," Jim retorted, and if the two or three Americans present hadn't held the paunchy person by the arms there would have been a real fight.

* * * * *

Leaving the bar in disgust, Morrison went into the dingy dining room and was led to a seat and a menu thrust into his hand by a black waiter. He did not consult it, however. Facing him, and only a few tables distant, was the most exquisite, most delectable, most glorious and most desirable girl in the world. With her was an elderly woman, drab, stern-visaged, starchy and argus-eyed, whom he put down as a missionary.

The girl had dark hair parted in the middle and caught in a knob at the back of her neck; long hair, mind you; and she had the largest brown eyes that ever adorned a female face. Her nose was small and saucily tilted, her mouth small, whimsical and expressive, her chin determined--and it had a dimple in it.

The woman with her said something and she smiled, which exhibited two rows of sublime teeth, and disclosed another dimple in the center of her right cheek. Her complexion was blond, despite her dark hair, a rare combination, and, in Jim's opinion, an adorable one.

That part of the figure visible above the table was alluring, and he knew without seeing them that her legs would be marvelous. It turned out that they were. When she observed his stare she looked demurely down and veiled her eyes with criminally long black lashes, while a bright blush illuminated her milky cheeks.

Jim Morrison knew by the astonishing behavior of his heart that he had met the girl of all girls, and the next thing was to find out who she was. He left his table abruptly and sought the hotel clerk.

"You mean the Señorita Goring," smiled the young Spaniard. "She is--ah--superb! Her father is the American consul."

"What luck," thought Jim. "I'll make his acquaintance, marry her and go north with her on next week's boat. Tum, tum, te, tum te tum tum."

It was the Mendelssohn wedding march he was humming. He rapidly wrote a note to the steamship company canceling his passage on the morrow and returned to the dining room. Sitting with the future Mrs. Morrison was the very same old dodderer who had wanted to beat him up in the barroom!

So it was the American consul with whom he had picked a fight. Holy mackerel, what a boner he had pulled! At the moment Mr. Goring looked up and saw Jim, and scowled fiercely, and then he said something to his daughter, who proceeded to gaze at Morrison with scorn and loathing.

"Torpedoed," Jim muttered. "James, my boy, you're sunk without a trace unless you do something, and do it quick. Now or never!"

He rose and walked toward the trio at the consul's table, who gazed at him in angry astonishment.

"Sir," Jim said, "I don't know who you are, but I wish to tell you that I am very much ashamed of my exhibition of a few moments ago. I think it must have been the heat. That drink I had disturbed me. I just want to say that you were entirely right and I was wrong. There is no question that the Republican party is the party of Lincoln and Roosevelt and the only party worthy of ruling the United States of America. If you made any other statements that I contradicted, due to my abnormal condition, I wish to tell you that you were correct, and I am a whippersnapper, just as you said."

Mr. Goring's rather fishy blue eyes regarded him, without change of expression, his cheeks grew even more purple than they had been. They were almost as purple now as his nose, and his pendulous underlip quivered menacingly. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands insolently upon his paunch.

"Young man," he said, "your conversion is too sudden to be convincing. I quarrel with no man about his opinions. I am glad you are aware that you are a whippersnapper, but I still regard you as a most objectionable person. And you called me a superannuated ape."

"What?" exclaimed the young woman. "He called you that, father?"

"I was only prevented from chastising him by the interference of others."

"I withdraw that statement, too, sir. I withdraw everything. I regret I so far forgot myself as to insult a worthy gentleman. I think it must have been the heat."

"I cannot accept your apology. Kindly leave us, sir."

"My name is James V. Morrison," he persisted with desperation. "I am the son of Thomas Morrison of New York."

"I wouldn't care if you were the son of the President of the United States, sir," said the unmollified old gentleman, "I want nothing to do with you."

"May I suggest," said the elderly lady, in tones compared to which vinegar would be sweet, "that you withdraw, young man. You are grossly intoxicated."

Jim looked imploringly at the girl, whose face was without expression, then he bowed and slowly left the dining room. He had tried a bold stroke and lost. However, the girl knew exactly why he had humiliated himself. It was for her. Perhaps he had piqued her interest.

What an ass he had been. Of course he was irritable because of his long ride in the appalling heat, but he didn't have to get into a controversy with the old imbecile. He might have walked out of the barroom. And it had to be the father of the one girl!

"I'll get her yet," he assured himself, "but it's going to be tough."