John De Graffenreid Atwood ate of the lotus， root，stem， and flower. The tropics gobbled him up. He plungedenthusiastically into his work， which was to try to forgetRosine.
Now， they who dine on the lotus rarely consume itplain. There is a sauce au diable that goes with it； and thedistillers are the chefs who prepare it. And on Johnny’smenu card it read “brandy.” With a bottle between them，he and Billy Keogh would sit on the porch of the littleconsulate at night and roar out great， indecorous songs，until the natives， slipping hastily past， would shrug ashoulder and mutter things to themselves about the“Americanos diablos.”
One day Johnny’s mozo brought the mail and dumpedit on the table. Johnny leaned from his hammock， andfingered the four or five letters dejectedly. Keogh wassitting on the edge of the table chopping lazily with apaper knife at the legs of a centipede that was crawlingamong the stationery. Johnny was in that phase of lotuseatingwhen all the world tastes bitter in one’s mouth.
“Same old thing！” he complained. “Fool people writingfor information about the country. They want to know allabout raising fruit， and how to make a fortune withoutwork. Half of ’em don’t even send stamps for a reply. Theythink a consul hasn’t anything to do but write letters. Slitthose envelopes for me， old man， and see what they want.
I’m feeling too rocky to move.”
Keogh， acclimated beyond all possibility of ill-humor，drew his chair to the table with smiling compliance onhis rose-pink countenance， and began to slit open theletters. Four of them were from citizens in various partsof the United States who seemed to regard the consulat Coralio as a cyclopedia of information. They askedlong lists of questions， numerically arranged， about theclimate， products， possibilities， laws， business chances， andstatistics of the country in which the consul had the honorof representing his own government.
“Write ’em， please， Billy，” said that inert official， “justa line， referring them to the latest consular report. Tell’em the State Department will be delighted to furnish theliterary gems. Sign my name. Don’t let your pen scratch，Billy； it’ll keep me awake.”
“Don’t snore，” said Keogh， amiably， “and I’ll do your workfor you. You need a corps of assistants， anyhow. Don’t seehow you ever get out a report. Wake up a minute—here’sone more letter—it’s from your own town， too—Dalesburg.”
“That so？” murmured Johnny showing a mild andobligatory interest. “What’s it about？”
“Postmaster writes，” explained Keogh. “Says a citizen ofthe town wants some facts and advice from you. Says thecitizen has an idea in his head of coming down where youare and opening a shoe store. Wants to know if you thinkthe business would pay. Says he’s heard of the boom alongthis coast， and wants to get in on the ground floor.”
In spite of the heat and his bad temper， Johnny’shammock swayed with his laughter. Keogh laughed too；and the pet monkey on the top shelf of the bookcasechattered in shrill sympathy with the ironical reception ofthe letter from Dalesburg.
“Great bunions！” exclaimed the consul. “Shoe store！
What’ll they ask about next， I wonder？ Overcoat factory， Ireckon. Say， Billy—of our 3，000 citizens， how many do yousuppose ever had on a pair of shoes？”
Keogh reflected judicially.
“Let’s see—there’s you and me and—”
“Not me，” said Johnny， promptly and incorrectly， holdingup a foot encased in a disreputable deerskin zapato. “Ihaven’t been a victim to shoes in months.”
“But you’ve got ’em， though，” went on Keogh. “Andthere’s Goodwin and Blanchard and Geddie and oldLutz and Doc Gregg and that Italian that’s agent for thebanana company， and there’s old Delgado—no； he wearssandals. And， oh， yes； there’s Madama Ortiz， ‘what kapesthe hotel’—she had on a pair of red kid slippers at thebaile the other night. And Miss Pasa， her daughter， thatwent to school in the States—she brought back somecivilized notions in the way of footgear. And there’s thecomandante’s sister that dresses up her feet on feastdays—and Mrs. Geddie， who wears a two with a Castilianinstep—and that’s about all the ladies. Let’s see—don’tsome of the soldiers at the cuartel—no： that’s so； they’reallowed shoes only when on the march. In barracks theyturn their little toeses out to grass.”
“’Bout right，” agreed the consul. “Not over twenty outof the three thousand ever felt leather on their walkingarrangements. Oh， yes； Coralio is just the town for anenterprising shoe store—that doesn’t want to part with itsgoods. Wonder if old Patterson is trying to jolly me！ Healways was full of things he called jokes. Write him a letter，Billy. I’ll dictate it. We’ll jolly him back a few.”
Keogh dipped his pen， and wrote at Johnny’s dictation.
With many pauses， filled in with smoke and sundrytravellings of the bottle and glasses， the following reply tothe Dalesburg communication was perpetrated：
MR. OBADIAH PATTERSON， Dalesburg， Ala.
Dear Sir： in reply to your favor of July 2d. I have thehonor to inform you that， according to my opinion， thereis no place on the habitable globe that presents to the eyestronger evidence of the need of a first-class shoe storethan does the town of Coralio. There are 3，000 inhabitantsin the place， and not a single shoe store！ The situationspeaks for itself. This coast is rapidly becoming the goalof enterprising business men， but the shoe business is onethat has been sadly overlooked or neglected. In fact， thereare a considerable number of our citizens actually withoutshoes at present.
Besides the want above mentioned， there is also a cryingneed for a brewery， a college of higher mathematics， a coalyard， and a clean and intellectual Punch and Judy show. Ihave the honor to be，
Your Obt. Servant，
John De Graffenreid Atwood，
U.S. CONSUL AT CORALIO.
