“It was,” said Billy.  “The police came for me to start the current going again, but I said I was too ill.  Then the president’s own doctor came, old Gautier, and Gautier examined me with a lantern and said that in Hayti my disease frequently proved fatal, but he thought if I turned on the lights I might recover.  I told him I was tired of life, anyway, but that if I could see three thousand francs it might give me an incentive.  He reported back to the president and the three thousand francs arrived almost instantly, and a chicken broth from Ham’s own chef, with His Excellency’s best wishes for the recovery of the invalid.  My recovery was instantaneous, and I switched on the lights.

“I had just moved into the Widow Ducrot’s hotel that week, and her daughter Claire wouldn’t let me eat the broth.  I thought it was because, as she’s a dandy cook herself, she was professionally jealous.  She put the broth on the top shelf of the pantry and wrote on a piece of paper, ‘Gare!’ But the next morning a perfectly good cat, who apparently couldn’t read, was lying beside it dead.”

The consul frowned reprovingly.

“You should not make such reckless charges,” he protested.  “I would call it only a coincidence.”

“You can call it what you please,” said Billy, “but it won’t bring the cat back.  Anyway, the next time I went to the palace to collect, the president was ready for me.  He said he’d been taking out information, and he found if I shut off the lights again he could hire another man in the States to turn them on.  I told him he’d been deceived.  I told him the Wilmot Electric Lights were produced by a secret process, and that only a trained Wilmot man could work them.  And I pointed out to him if he dismissed me it wasn’t likely the Wilmot people would loan him another expert; not while they were fighting him through the courts and the State Department.  That impressed the old man; so I issued my ultimatum.  I said if he must have electric lights he must have me, too.  Whether he liked it or not, mine was a life job.”

“What did he say to that?” gasped the new consul.

“Said it wasn’t a life job, because he was going to have me shot at sunset.”

“Then you said?”

“I said if he did that there wouldn’t be any electric lights, and you would bring a warship and shoot Hayti off the map.”

The new consul was most indignant.

“You had no right to say that!” he protested.  “You did very ill.  My instructions are to avoid all serious complications.”

“That was what I was trying to avoid,” said Billy.  “Don’t you call being shot at sunset a serious complication?  Or would that be just a coincidence, too?  You’re a hellofa consul!”

Since his talk with the representative of his country four months had passed and Billy still held his job.  But each month the number of francs he was able to wrest from President Hamilcar dwindled, and were won only after verbal conflicts that each month increased in violence.