The next morning a strange procession filed through thestreets to the collector’s office. At its head was the admiralof the navy. Somewhere Felipe had raked together a pitifulsemblance of a military uniform—a pair of red trousers， adingy blue short jacket heavily ornamented with gold braid，and an old fatigue cap that must have been cast away by oneof the British soldiers in Belize and brought away by Felipeon one of his coasting voyages. Buckled around his waistwas an ancient ship’s cutlass contributed to his equipmentby Pedro Lafitte， the baker， who proudly asserted itsinheritance from his ancestor， the illustrious buccaneer. Atthe admiral’s heels tagged his newly shipped crew—threegrinning， glossy， black Caribs， bare to the waist， the sandspurting in showers from the spring of their naked feet.
Briefly and with dignity Felipe demanded his vessel ofthe collector. And now a fresh honor awaited him. Thecollector’s wife， who played the guitar and read novels inthe hammock all day， had more than a little romance inher placid， yellow bosom. She had found in an old book anengraving of a flag that purported to be the naval flag ofAnchuria. Perhaps it had so been designed by the foundersof the nation； but， as no navy had ever been established，oblivion had claimed the flag. Laboriously with her ownhands she had made a flag after the pattern—a red crossupon a blue-and-white ground. he presented it to Felipewith these words： “Brave sailor， this flag is of your country.
Be true， and defend it with your life. Go you with God.”
For the first time since his appointment the admiralshowed a flicker of emotion. He took the silken emblem，and passed his hand reverently over its surface， “I am theadmiral，” he said to the collector’s lady. Being on land hecould bring himself to no more exuberant expression ofsentiment. At sea with the flag at the masthead of hisnavy， some more eloquent exposition of feelings might beforthcoming.
Abruptly the admiral departed with his crew. For thenext three days they were busy giving the Estrella delNoche a new coat of white paint trimmed with blue. Andthen Felipe further adorned himself by fastening a handfulof brilliant parrot’s plumes in his cap. Again he trampedwith his faithful crew to the collector’s office and formallynotified him that the sloop’s name had been changed to ElNacional.
During the next few months the navy had its troubles.
Even an admiral is perplexed to know what to do withoutany orders. But none came. Neither did any salaries. ElNacional swung idly at anchor.
When Felipe’s little store of money was exhausted hewent to the collector and raised the question of finances.
“Salaries！” exclaimed the collector， with hands raised；“Valgame Dios！ not one centavo of my own pay haveI received for the last seven months. The pay of anadmiral， do you ask？ Quien sabe？ Should it be less thanthree thousand pesos？ Mira！ you will see a revolutionin this country very soon. A good sign of it is when thegovernment calls all the time for pesos， pesos， pesos， andpays none out.”
Felipe left the collector’s office with a look almost ofcontent on his sombre face. A revolution would meanfighting， and then the government would need his services.
It was rather humiliating to be an admiral without anythingto do， and have a hungry crew at your heels begging forreales to buy plantains and tobacco with.
When he returned to where his happy-go-lucky Caribswere waiting they sprang up and saluted， as he had drilledthem to do. “Come， muchachos，” said the admiral； “itseems that the government is poor. It has no money togive us. We will earn what we need to live upon. Thuswill we serve our country. Soon” —his heavy eyes almostlighted up—“it may gladly call upon us for help.”
Thereafter El Nacional turned out with the othercoast craft and became a wage-earner. She worked withthe lighters freighting bananas and oranges out to thefruit steamers that could not approach nearer than a milefrom the shore. Surely a self-supporting navy deserves redletters in the budget of any nation.
After earning enough at freighting to keep himself andhis crew in provisions for a week Felipe would anchor thenavy and hang about the little telegraph office， lookinglike one of the chorus of an insolvent comic opera troupebesieging the manager’s den. A hope for orders from thecapital was always in his heart. That his services as admiralhad never been called into requirement hurt his pride andpatriotism. At every call he would inquire， gravely andexpectantly， for despatches. The operator would pretendto make a search， and then reply：
“Not yet， it seems， Senor el Almirante—poco tiempo！”
Outside in the shade of the lime-trees the crew chewedsugar cane or slumbered， well content to serve a countrythat was contented with so little service.
One day in the early summer the revolution predictedby the collector flamed out suddenly. It had long beensmoldering. At the first note of alarm the admiral of thenavy force and fleet made all sail for a larger port on thecoast of a neighboring republic， where he traded a hastilycollected cargo of fruit for its value in cartridges for thefive Martini rifles， the only guns that the navy could boast.
Then to the telegraph office sped the admiral. Sprawling inhis favorite corner， in his fast-decaying uniform， with hisprodigious sabre distributed between his red legs， he waitedfor the long-delayed， but now soon expected， orders.
“Not yet， Senor el Almirante” the telegraph clerk wouldcall to him—“poco tiempo！”
At the answer the admiral would plump himself downwith a great rattling of scabbard to await the infrequenttick of the little instrument on the table.
“They will come，” would be his unshaken reply； “I amthe admiral.”
