“We would better go over to the Department, at once, or we shall miss him,” he said. “Chevy Chase is the drawing card, in the afternoon.”
The reception hour was long passed, but the Secretary was in and would see Senator Rickrose. He came forward to meet him—a tall, middle-aged, well-groomed man, with sandy hair, whose principal recommendation for the post he filled was the fact that he was the largest contributor to the campaign fund in his State, and his senior senator needed him in his business, and had refrigerated him into the Cabinet for safe keeping—that being the only job which insured him from being a candidate for the Senator’s own seat. It is a great game, is politics!
“Mr. Secretary!” said Rickrose, “my friends want a permit to camp for two weeks on Greenberry Point.”
“Greenbury Point!” said the Secretary, vaguely—“that’s somewhere out in San Francisco harbor?”
“Not the Greenberry Point they mean,” the Senator replied. “It’s down at Annapolis—across the Severn from the Naval Academy, and forms part of that command, I presume. It is waste land, unfortified and wind swept.”
“Oh! to be sure. I know it. Why wouldn’t the Superintendent give you a permit?” turning to Macloud. “It is within his jurisdiction.”
“We didn’t think to ask him,” said Macloud. 146 “We supposed it was necessary to apply direct to you.”
“They are not familiar with the customs of the service,” explained Rickrose, “and, as I may run down to see them, just issue the permit to me and party. The Chairman of the Naval Affairs Committee is inspecting the Point, if you need an excuse.”
“Oh, no! none whatever—however, a duplicate will be forwarded to the Superintendent. If it should prove incompatible with the interests of the service,” smiling, “he will inform the Department, and we shall have to revoke it.”
He rang for his stenographer and dictated the permit. When it came in, he signed it and passed it over to Rickrose.