A LEDGE OF SAFETY
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JOHN CALTROP, C.E., stretched his slight, wiry limbs as he sprawled on the broad window-seat, leaning against the heavy bars through which he had been looking out over the plaza of a little Andean capital.
"Tell the Secretary of State to go jump on himself," he said indifferently.
"He wouldn' do it, son," smiled old Mr. Grey in his soft Texan drawl, "not if yo' tol' him to fo' a thousan' yeahs. He's jus' that awbstinate."
A tall young man, whose figure gave promise of future portliness, stopped short in his nervous pacing of the room.
"But—hang it all, don't you both see?" he cried. "Modesto Angel Borja is"
"Which means, Modest Angel Borgia," chuckled Jack Caltrop. "Isn't that the peachy combination of names, though?"
"Hang the name!" cried the tall young man.
"By all means!" assented Jack heartily. "And hang the man at the same time. It may come to that, yet."
"Don't, please, make more of an ass of yourself than you can help, Caltrop," begged D. Webster Stowell, counselor and attorney-at-law—this being the tall young man's name and title. "Borja is acting well within his legal rights. He's not only Secretary of State of the so-called republic, but also chairman of this Government investigating committee. Having called you both as witnesses, he expects you to come, and without any more words."
"That man Borja has an awful lot to lea'n," observed old Mr. Grey, shaking his head pensively as he leaned back in his chair and rolled another cigarette.
"But listen—do listen for a moment!" implored poor Stowell. "Here we are, with a general election just coming on. Of course Henning, and all that opposition crowd back of him, don't want us to get the concession we’re after. Then we'd be a power,
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