The Consul-General
But then, too, he found a great many things to bother him—little reminiscences of his predecessor's reign that just naturally cropped up in the day's work—and sickened Senet.
He voiced his resentment of such a state of affairs one night on the terrace of the Hôtel d'Angleterre, where he sat enjoying the coolness, and the view, and a Scotch whiskey-and-soda, with Colonel Terence O'Rourke.
O'Rourke himself was sojourning in Tangiers under protest, and, by that token, not enjoying his stay to any overwhelming extent. For which reason, if for no other, he had interested himself in the fledgling Consul-General, who seemed to be trying so hard to do the decent thing in a land where everybody else seemed to be striving equally as hard with a totally contrary end in view.
And the Irishman was by way of liking young Senet rather thoroughly, both because the American was distinctly likable, and because we are always inclined to like those whom it has cost us some effort to favor.
When Senet had maintained a meditative silence unbroken for several minutes, O'Rourke turned to him, grinning in friendly wise.
"What's troubling ye now?" he inquired, with emphasis on the "now." "That is," he stipulated, "if 'tis ntot poking the nose of me into your private affairs."
"Oh, not at all, sir," replied Senet respectfully, sitting up. "It's nothing new—same old story. About a week ago," he added with a queer little laugh, "I granted protection papers to a fellow who had a right to them—a petty leather merchant over Ceuta-way. To his infinite surprise, I wouldn't take a cent, although he assured me that it was customary, and all that.
"Now, to-day stalks into the consulate this chap's caid—
[ 307 ]
