MOR.—I trust, sir, this removes the last scruple that the Administration may have had against immediate construction of the Nicaraguan Canal. The war down there will—— HAY—War? Is there also a war? MOR.—Sir, you astonish me! Am I to suppose that you do not know that secession entails war? I learned that more than forty years ago. HAY—Dear me! Then we shall have to protect American interests. How do you think it would do to send word to our Consul at Colon to be duly vigilant in the matter? Or perhaps it would be better to have our Minister at Bogota notify Colombia that there must be no bloodshed. MOR.—I think, if you want to know, that that would be taking the side of Panama. HAY—We cannot, of course, do that: it would look like a violation of neutrality. Really, the situation is embarrassing. I wish those hot-headed southern Republics would be good. MOR.—Well, sir, if you have nothing to propose, I shall speak of the matter in the Senate. HAY—Oh, thank you so much. I promise you that we will await the conclusion of your remarks before taking any action in the Nicaraguan matter. MOR. (_aside_)—Hoist with my own petard! [_Exit Morgan; Hay goes to telephone._] HAY—Hello! Give me the Secretary of the Navy. TELEPHONE—Br-r-r-r-r-rrr. HAY—That you, Moody? Have you sent those fifteen warships to the Isthmus?—and the two thousand marines? And have they orders that if any Colombian soldier set foot on the sacred soil of Panama they are to shoot him on the spot? TEL.—Br-r-r-r-rzz—spot him on the snoot. HAY—All right. I’ll draft a canal treaty with the Panaman Junta at once. The President has his ear to the ground and says that there is a pretty strong sentiment down there in favor of admittance into this Union. Truly this is a wonderful century. TEL.—People are saying that we fomented this Panama rebellion. HAY—Oh, Moody; how unjust! A WHITE HOUSE IDYL _President Roosevelt._ _Shonts, Engineer of the Panama Canal._ _Loeb, Private Secretary to the President._ _The Adversary of Souls._ _The Press._ ACT I PRESIDENT (_solus_): There!—’tis to be a lock canal. Now let The dirt fly. [_Enter Shonts._] SHONTS: Very well, sir, don’t you fret; It will, right speedily, I’m sure. But I— I’m getting out of this concern. I fly! [_Exit Shonts._] PRESIDENT: Now let the heathen rage: their pet sea-level Canal has gone a-glimmering to the devil. [_Enter Loeb with a card._]