MET.—You don’t say so! Why, it is hardly six o’clock by their time. They are early risers. PRES.—I learn from Secretary Root that Admiral Togo’s battleships are coaling. Now, what can that mean? MET.—Let us ask Dewey. [_Enter, thoughtfully, Admiral Dewey._] Admiral, the President has learned that the Japanese battleships at Tokio are taking on coal. What, in your judgment as a sailor, are they going to do with it? DEWEY—Burn it. [_Enter Secretary Root._] ROOT—Mr. President, California is about to secede—we shall lose Metcalf! The entire Pacific Coast will follow. I go to glory or the grave! [_Exit Secretary Root. Enter Secretary Taft, with bottle._] TAFT—In this supreme crisis of the nation let us fortify our souls (_filling glasses_) for any trial. PRES. (_lifting glass_)—Here’s confusion to the memory of the late Commodore Matthew Perry! [_They drink. Tumult within: “Banzai! Banzai!” Enter Loeb._] LOEB—Mr. President—— PRES.—Where’s Root? LOEB—In the East Room, playing draw poker with the Japanese Minister. [_Renewed tumult within_: “_Banzai Nippon!_”] The Jap seems to be winning. A WIRELESS ANTEPENULTIMATUM _The President._ _Hay, Secretary of State._ _Bowen, Minister to Venezuela._ PRESIDENT: John Hay, where are you on the great, gray sea? I beg you will at once return to me. This wireless business is the devil’s own, And Castro’s playing him with me alone! Venezuela sneering at my threat; Santo Domingo more and more in debt; Their foreign creditors dispatching fleets With duns and guns and sons of guns—it beats The Dutch, the devil and the band! I swear From sheer distraction I could pull your hair! ’Twixt Castro and the Doctrine of Monroe, My fears are nimble and my wits are slow. I know not where to go nor how to stop— Stand fast or, like old Saul of Tarsus, “flop.” Nothing I know, and everything I doubt— Dear John, in God’s name put your prow about! HAY: Though the skies fall upon the hills beneath Be resolute. If needful show your teeth. PRESIDENT: Dear Bowen, go to Castro. Tell him straight He must make up his mind to arbitrate. Say if he won’t—here swing the big, big stick— We’ll do a little stunt to make him sick. BOWEN: Your words I’ve put into his ear. Said he: “I’m sick already—to the mountains, me.” PRESIDENT: Tell him again; then if he won’t, why, add We’ll give him ninety days to wish he had. BOWEN: I’ve told him that, sir, and he says if you Are pressed for time a single day will do, For he’s a rapid wisher. What shall I Say further, to provoke a coarse reply? PRESIDENT: