There was something out of joint.
“Well, what is it, Mr. Secretary?” I asked, grimly.
“Nothing much, only old Toreado has refused to stay dead; he has reappeared, is haranguing the boys, denouncing us; you are already a ‘has been,’ and I reckon they’ll soon follow me here demanding tropical vengeance. We must levant, Morgan, my boy.”
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE HAND OF THE WIZARD.
Another kaleidoscopic change had occurred in my fortunes. I think I had been president almost three hours, which was quite enough; some men have not enjoyed the luxury even that long.
And, singular to relate, my first feeling upon hearing the news of the ex-secretary of war was something in the line of keen pleasure.
I was relieved of a load—so poor Sindbad the Sailor must have felt when he finally shook off the Old Man of the Sea from his shoulders.
Yes, and in that exceedingly brief space of time, which the hustling Robbins allowed me in order, as he thought, that I might swallow the keen regret and chagrin that a deposed president should by right experience—in that breathing spell, would you believe it, I had a very distinct and very attractive vision of a jaunty English steam yacht plowing the blue waters of the Mediterranean, with storied Algiers in sight, the uniformed captain being Robbins himself, while the passengers consisted solely of two persons, myself and Hildegarde.
Which must have been conclusive evidence as to the lightness with which I held my receding presidential glory.