The other boat returned to Ratona bearing a contribution from the
_Pajaro's_ store of ice, the usual roll of newspapers and one
passenger--Taylor Plunkett, sheriff of Chatham County, Kentucky.
Bridger, the United States consul at Ratona, was cleaning his rifle
in the official shanty under a bread-fruit tree twenty yards from the
water of the harbour. The consul occupied a place somewhat near the
tail of his political party's procession. The music of the band
wagon sounded very faintly to him in the distance. The plums of
office went to others. Bridger's share of the spoils--the
consulship at Ratona--was little more than a prune--a dried prune
from the boarding-house department of the public crib. But $900
yearly was opulence in Ratona. Besides, Bridger had contracted a
passion for shooting alligators in the lagoons near his consulate,
and was not unhappy.
He looked up from a careful inspection of his rifle lock and saw a
broad man filling his doorway. A broad, noiseless, slow-moving man,
sunburned almost to the brown of Vandyke. A man of forty-five,
neatly clothed in homespun, with scanty light hair, a close-clipped
brown-and-gray beard and pale-blue eyes expressing mildness and
simplicity.
"You are Mr. Bridger, the consul," said the broad man.
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