The Kidnapped President by Guy Boothby

La Gloria, the chief port and capital of the Republic of Equinata, is charmingly situated on the west side of an admirably shaped bay, and is land-locked, save for a distance of about half-a-mile. It boasts a population numbering upwards of thirty thousand, of which only some ten or twelve thousand are white, the remainder being half-castes, quadroons, mulattoes, and negroes unadulterated. The city possesses some fine buildings, notable among which is the Cathedral of San Pedro, a handsome edifice, though somewhat damaged by the earthquake of '83. The Houses of Parliament are also imposing structures, as befits a land where every man is a politician, and no boy knows what may be in store for him. There is also the President's palace, and, of course, an opera house, and equally of course a long stretch of barracks, where the soldiers would seem to spend their time smoking cigarettes and hatching plots against their superiors.

As we passed through the Heads and entered the harbour, it struck me I had never looked upon a fairer scene. The blue waters of the bay, the white houses peeping out from amid the wealth of foliage, and the mountains rising tier upon tier behind, made up as pretty a picture as the eye of man could desire to dwell upon. We had scarcely come to anchor before a boat put off to us, pulled by four stalwart niggers, and carrying a much-uniformed official, who sat beside the coxswain. He proved to be the health officer -- a voluble little Spaniard, with a magnificent idea of his own importance. As soon as his boat was alongside he ran up the ladder to the gangway with the agility of a monkey, and made his way to the place where Captain Ferguson was waiting to receive him. During the years I had been in the South American trade, I had managed to pick up a considerable smattering of Spanish, enough at any rate to make myself understood by the Dons.