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and deduction. He had taken up political intrigue as a matter of
business. He was acute enough to wield a certain influence among
the leading schemers, and he was prosperous enough to be able to
purchase the respect of the petty-officeholders. There was always
a revolutionary party; and to it he had allied himself; for the
adherents of a new administration received the rewards of their
labors. There was now a Liberal party seeking to overturn President
Miraflores. If the wheel successfully revolved, Goodwin stood to win
a concession to 30,000 manzanas of the finest coffee lands in the
interior. Certain incidents in the recent career of President
Miraflores had excited a shrewd suspicion in Goodwin's mind that the
government was near a dissolution from another cause than that of a
revolution, and now Englehart's telegram had come as a corroboration
of his wisdom.
The telegram, which had remained unintelligible to the Anchurian
linguists who had applied to it in vain their knowledge of Spanish
and elemental English, conveyed a stimulating piece of news to
Goodwin's understanding. It informed him that the president of the
republic had decamped from the capital city with the contents of the
treasury. Furthermore, that he was accompanied in his flight by that
winning adventuress Isabel Guilbert, the opera singer, whose troupe
of performers had been entertained by the president at San Mateo
during the past month on a scale less modest than that with which
royal visitors are often content. The reference to the "jackrabbit
line" could mean nothing else than the mule-back system of transport
that prevailed between Coralio and the capital. The hint that the
"boodle" was "six figures short" made the condition of the national
treasury lamentably clear. Also it was convincingly true that the
ingoing party--its way now made a pacific one--would need the
"spondulicks." Unless its pledges should be fulfilled, and the
spoils held for the delectation of the victors, precarious indeed,
would be the position of the new government. Therefore it was
exceeding necessary to "collar the main guy," and recapture the
sinews of war and government.
Goodwin handed the message to Keogh.
"Read that, Billy," he said. "It's from Bob Englehart. Can you
manage the cipher?"
Keogh sat in the other half of the doorway, and carefully perused
"'Tis not a cipher," he said, finally. "'Tis what they call
literature, and that's a system of language put in the mouths
of people that they've never been introduced to by writers of
imagination. The magazines invented it, but I never knew before that
President Norvin Green had stamped it with the seal of his approval.
'Tis now no longer literature, but language. The dictionaries tried,
but they couldn't make it go for anything but dialect. Sure, now
that the Western Union indorses it, it won't be long till a race of
people will spring up that speaks it."
"You're running too much to philology, Billy," said Goodwin. "Do you
make out the meaning of it?"
"Sure," replied the philosopher of Fortune. "All languages come easy
to the man who must know 'em. I've even failed to misunderstand an
order to evacuate in classical Chinese when it was backed up by the
muzzle of a breech-loader. This little literary essay I hold in my
hands means a game of Fox-in-the-Morning. Ever play that, Frank,
when you was a kid?"
"I think so," said Goodwin, laughing. "You join hands all 'round,
"You do not," interrupted Keogh. "You've got a fine sporting game
mixed up in your head with 'All Around the Rosebush.' The spirit of
'Fox-in-the-Morning' is opposed to the holding of hands. I'll tell
you how it's played. This president man and his companion in play,
they stand up over in San Mateo, ready for the run, and shout:
"Fox-in-the-Morning!' Me and you, standing here, we say: 'Goose
and Gander!' They say: 'How many miles is it to London town?' We
say: 'Only a few, if your legs are long enough. How many comes out?'
They say: 'More than you're able to catch.' And then the game
"I catch the idea," said Goodwin. "It won't do to let the goose
and gander slip through your fingers, Billy; their feathers are too
valuable. Our crowd is prepared and able to step into the shoes
of the government at once; but with the treasury empty we'd stay
in power about as long as a tenderfoot would stick on an untamed
bronco. We must play the fox on every foot of the coast to prevent
their getting out of the country."
"By the mule-back schedule," said Keogh, "it's five days down from
San Mateo. We've got plenty of time to set our outposts. There's
only three places on the coast where they can hope to sail from--here
and Solitas and Alazan. They're the only points we'll have to guard.
It's as easy as a chess problem--fox to play, and mate in three
moves. Oh, goosey, goosey, gander, whither do you wander? By the
blessing of the literary telegraph the boodle of this benighted
fatherland shall be preserved to the honest political party that
is seeking to overthrow it."
The situation had been justly outlined by Keogh. The down trail
from the capital was at all times a weary road to travel. A jiggety-
joggety journey it was; ice-cold and hot, wet and dry. The trail
climbed appalling mountains, wound like a rotten string about the
brows of breathless precipices, plunged through chilling snow-fed
streams, and wriggled like a snake through sunless forests teeming
with menacing insect and animal life. After descending to the
foothills it turned to a trident, the central prong ending at Alazan.
Another branched off to Coralio; the third penetrated to Solitas.
Between the sea and the foothills stretched the five miles breadth
of alluvial coast. Here was the flora ofthe tropics in its rankest
and most prodigal growth. Spaces here and there had been wrested
from the jungle and planted with bananas and cane and orange groves.
The rest was a riot of wild vegetation, the home of monkeys, tapirs,
jaguars, alligators, and prodigious reptiles and insects. Where no
road was cut a serpent could scarcely make its way through the tangle
of vines and creepers. Across the treacherous mangrove swamps few
things without wings could safely pass. Therefore the fugitives
could hope to reach the coast only by one of the routes named.
"Keep the matter quiet, Billy," advised Goodwin. "We don't want
the Ins to know that the president is in flight. I suppose Bob's
information is something of a scoop in the capital as yet. Otherwise
he would not have tried to make his message a confidential one; and,
besides, everybody would have heard the news. I'm going around now
to see Dr. Zavalla, and start a man up the trail to cut the telegraph
As Goodwin rose, Keogh threw his hat upon the grass by the door and
expelled a tremendous sigh.
"What's the trouble, Billy?" asked Goodwin, pausing. "That's the
first time I heard you sigh."
"'Tis the last," said Keogh. "With that sorrowful puff of wind
I resign myself to a life of praiseworthy but harassing honesty.
What are tintypes, if you please, to the opportunities of the great
and hilarious class of ganders and geese? Not that I would be a
president, Frank--and the boodle he's got is too big for me to handle
--but in some ways I feel my conscience hurting me for addicting
myself to photographing a nation instead of running away with it.
Frank, did you ever see the 'bundle of muslin' that His Excellency
has wrapped up and carried off?"
"Isabel Guilbert?" said Goodwin, laughing. "No, I never did. From
what I've heard of her, though, I imagine that she wouldn't stick at
anything to carry her point. Don't get romantic, Billy. Sometimes
I begin to fear that there's Irish blood in your ancestry."
"I never saw her either," went on Keogh; "but they say she's got all
the ladies of mythology, sculpture, and fiction reduced to chromos.
They say she can look at a man once, and he'll turn monkey and climb
trees to pick coconuts for her. Think of that president man with
Lord know how many hundreds of thousands of dollars in one hand,
and this muslin siren in the other, galloping down the hill on a
sympathetic mule amid songbirds and flowers! And here is Billy
Keogh, because he is virtuous, condemned to the unprofitable swindle
of slandering the faces of missing links on tin for an honest living!
'Tis an injustice of nature."
"Cheer up," said Goodwin. "You are a pretty poor fox to be envying
a gander. Maybe the enchanting Guilbert will take a fancy to you and
your tintypes after we impoverish her royal escort."
"She could do worse," reflected Keogh; "but she won't. 'Tis not
a tintype gallery, but a gallery of the gods that she's fitted to
adorn. She's a very wicked lady, and the president man is in luck.
But I hear Clancy swearing in the back room for having to do all the
work." And Keogh plunged for the rear of the "gallery," whistling
gaily in a spontaneous way that belied his recent sigh over the
questionable good luck of the flying president.
Goodwin turned from the main street into a much narrower one that
intersected it at a right angle.
These side streets were covered by a growth of thick, rank grass,
which was kept to a navigable shortness by the machetes of the
police. Stone sidewalks, little more than a ledge in width, ran
along the base of the mean and monotonous adobe houses. At the
outskirts of the village these streets dwindled to nothing; and here
were set the palm-thatched huts of the Caribs and the poorer natives,
and the shabby cabins of negroes from Jamaica and the West India
islands. A few structures raised their heads above the red-tiled
roofs of the one-story houses--the bell tower of the ~Calaboza~,
the Hotel de los Extranjeros, the residence of the Vesuvius Fruit
Company's agent, the store and residence of Bernard Brannigan,
a ruined cathedral in which Columbus had once set foot, and, most
imposing of all, the Casa Morena--the summer "White House" of
the President of Anchuria. On the principal street running along
the beach--the Broadway of Coralio--were the larger stores, the
government ~bodega~ and post-office, the ~cuartel~, the rum-shops
and the market place.
On his way Goodwin passed the house of Bernard Brannigan. It was a
modern wooden building, two stories in height. The ground floor was
occupied by Brannigan's store, the upper one contained the living
apartments. A wide cool porch ran around the house half way up its
outer walls. A handsome, vivacious girl neatly dressed in flowing
white leaned over the railing and smiled down upon Goodwin. She was
no darker than many an Andalusian of high descent; and she sparkled
and glowed like a tropical moonlight.
"Good evening, Miss Paula," said Goodwin, taking off his hat, with
his ready smile. There was little difference in his manner whether
he addressed women or men. Everybody in Coralio liked to receive
the salutation of the big American.
"Is there any news, Mr. Goodwin? Please don't say no. Isn't it
warm? I feel just like Mariana in her moated grange--or was it a
range?--it's hot enough."
"No, there's no news to tell, I believe," said Goodwin, with a
mischievous look in his eye, "except that old Geddie is getting
grumpier and crosser every day. If something doesn't happen to
relieve his mind I'll have to quit smoking on his back porch--and
there's no other place available that is cool enough."
"He isn't grumpy," said Paula Brannigan, impulsively, "when he--"
But she ceased suddenly, and drew back with a deepening color;
for her mother had been a ~mestizo~ lady, and the Spanish blood
had brought to Paula a certain shyness that was an adornment to
the other half of her demonstrative nature.
The Lotus And The Bottle
Willard Greddie, consul for the United States in Coralio, was working
leisurely on his yearly report. Goodwin, who had strolled in as he
did daily for a smoke on the much coveted porch, had found him so
absorbed in his work that he departed after roundly abusing the
consul for his lack of hospitality.
"I shall complain to the civil service department," said Goodwin;--
"or is it a department?--perhaps it's only a theory. One gets neither
civility nor service from you. You won't talk; and you won't set out
anything to drink. What kind of a way is that of representing your
Goodwin strolled out and across to the hotel to see if he could bully
the quarantine doctor into a game on Coralio's solitary billiard
table. His plans were completed for the interception of the
fugitives from the capital; and now it was but a waiting game that
he had to play.
The consul was interested in his report. He was only twenty-four;
and he had not been in Coralio long enough for his enthusiasm to cool
in the heat of the tropics--a paradox that may be allowed between
Cancer and Capricorn.
So many thousand bunches of bananas, so mnay thousand oranges and
coconuts, so many ounces of gold dust, pounds of rubber, coffee,
indigo and sarparilla--actually, exports were twenty per cent greater
than for the previous year!
A little thrill of satisfaction ran through the consul. Perhaps,
he thought, the State Department, upon reading his introduction,
would notice--and then he leaned back in his chair and laughed.
He was getting as bad as the others. For the moment he had forgotten
that Coralio was an insignificant republic lying along the by-ways
of a second-rate sea. He thought of Gregg, the quarantine doctor,
who subscribed for the London ~Lancet~, expecting to find it quoting
his reports to the home Board of Health concerning the yellow fever
germ. The consul knew that not one in fifty of his acquaintances in
the States had ever heard of Coralio. He knew that two men, at any
rate, would have to read his report--some underling in the State
Department and a compositor in the Public Printing Office. Perhaps
the typesticker would note the increase of commerce in Coralio, and
speak of it, over the cheese and beer, to a friend.
He had just written: "Most unaccountable is the supineness of the
large exporters in the United States in permitting the French and
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