We swopped yarns. In return for my gory tales of shelled cities, gas attacks, and air raids, they gave me gorgeous ... gorgeous tales of the little wars they have fought in the Caribbean. I realized for the first time just what it meant to Uncle Sam to be Central America's policeman. Now, as they spun their yarns, I could see the low, white buildings of a Consulate against the luminous West Indian sky, the boats on the beach, the marines on patrol; now the sugar plantation menaced by some political robber-rebel, the little tents under the trees, the business-like machine gun. A harassed American planter is often the _deux ex machina_ of these tales. We used to talk in a little office aboard the battleships down by the marines' quarters, which lie aft. I believe it was the sergeant's sanctum sanctorum. There were marine posters on the wall, a neat little stack of the marines' magazines handy by, a few books, and some filing cabinets. Just outside were the marine lockers, each one in the most perfect order, and a gun breech used for loading drills. The sergeant, himself, was a fine, keen fellow who had been in the corps for some time. His men declared themselves, for the most part, city born and bred. "What happened then?" "Just as soon as they got the message, a detail was sent into the hills for the defence of the plantation. It was a big sugar plantation. The American manager was seeing red he was so peeved, the harvesting season had come and the help, scared by the insurgents, were beating it off into the hills. What's more, the insurgents had told the manager that if he didn't pony up with five thousand dollars by a certain date, they'd burn the place. Actually had the nerve..." "In fiction," said I, "a lean, dark, villainous fellow mounted on a magnificent horse which he has looted from some fine stable dashes up to the plantation door, delivers his threat in an icy tone and gallops back into the bush. Or else a message wrapped round a stone crashes through the window onto the family breakfast table. Which was it?" I think the marine telling the story wanted very much to utter: "How do you get that way?" however, he merely grinned and answered: "Neither. A big, fat greaser in a dirty, Palm Beach suit came ambling up one morning as if somebody had asked him to chow. This was his game. A holdup? Oh, no! Only his men were getting a bit restless under the neck, about five thousand dollars restless, and if they didn't get it, there's no telling what they wouldn't do. He thought he could restrain them till Tuesday night, of course it would be a pretty stiff job to hold them in, but if something crisp and green hadn't shown up by Tuesday P.M., those devils might actually burn the plantation. Did you ever hear such a line of bull? And that's the honest truth of it, too; none of this stone in the mashed potatoes guff."