Coralio reclined， in the mid-day heat， like some vacuousbeauty lounging in a guarded harem. The town lay at thesea’s edge on a strip of alluvial coast. It was set like a littlepearl in an emerald band. Behind it， and seeming almostto topple， imminent， above it， rose the sea-following rangeof the Cordilleras. In front the sea was spread， a smilingjailer， but even more incorruptible than the frowningmountains. The waves swished along the smooth beach；the parrots screamed in the orange and ceiba-trees； thepalms waved their limber fronds foolishly like an awkwardchorus at the prima donna’s cue to enter.
Suddenly the town was full of excitement. A native boydashed down a grass-grown street， shrieking： “Busca elSenor Goodwin. Ha venido un telegrafo por el！ ”
The word passed quickly. Telegrams do not come toany one in Coralio. The cry for Senor Goodwin was takenup by a dozen officious voices. The main street runningparallel to the beach became populated with thosewho desired to expedite the delivery of the dispatch.
Knots of women with complexions varying from palestolive to deepest brown gathered at street corners andplaintively carolled： “Un telegrafo por Senor Goodwin！”
The comandante， Don Senor el Coronel EncarnacionRios， who was loyal to the Ins and suspected Goodwin’sdevotion to the Outs， hissed： “Aha！” and wrote in his secretmemorandum book the accusive fact that Senor Goodwinhad on that momentous date received a telegram.
In the midst of the hullabaloo a man stepped to thedoor of a small wooden building and looked out. Abovethe door was a sign that read “Keogh and Clancy” —anomenclature that seemed not to be indigenous to thattropical soil. The man in the door was Billy Keogh， scoutof fortune and progress and latter-day rover of the SpanishMain. Tintypes and photographs were the weapons withwhich Keogh and Clancy were at that time assailing thehopeless shores. Outside the shop were set two largeframes filled with specimens fo their art and skill.
Keogh leaned in the doorway， his bold and humorouscountenance wearing a look of interest at the unusualinflux of life and sound in the street. When the meaningof the disturbance became clear to him he placed a handbeside his mouth and shouted： “Hey！ Frank！” in such arobustious voice that the feeble clamor of the natives wasdrowned and silenced.
Fifty yards away， on the seaward side of the street， stoodthe abode of the consul for the United States. Out fromthe door of this building tumbled Goodwin at the call. Hehad been smoking with Willard Geddie， the consul， on theback porch of the consulate， which was conceded to bethe coolest spot in Coralio.
“Hurry up，” shouted Keogh. “There’s a riot in town onaccount of a telegram that’s come for you. You want tobe careful about these things， my boy. It won’t do to triflewith the feelings of the public this way. You’ll be getting apink note some day with violet scent on it； and then thecountry’ll be steeped in the throes of a revolution.”
Goodwin had strolled up the street and met the boywith the message. The ox-eyed women gazed at himwith shy admiration， for his type drew them. He was big，blond， and jauntily dressed in white linen， with buckskinzapatos. His manner was courtly， with a merciful eye.
When the telegram had been delivered， and the bearer ofit dismissed with a gratuity， the relieved populace returnedto the contiguities of shade from which curiosity haddrawn it—the women to their baking in the mud ovensunder the orange-trees， or to the interminable combingof their long， straight hair； the men to their cigarettes andgossip in the cantinas.
Goodwin sat on Keogh’s doorstep， and read histelegram. It was from Bob Englehart， an American， wholived in San Mateo， the capital city of Anchuria， eightymiles in the interior. Englehart was a gold miner， an ardentrevolutionist and “good people.” That he was a man ofresource and imagination was proven by the telegram hehad sent. It had had been his task to send a confidentialmessage to his friend in Coralio. This could not have beenaccomplished in either Spanish or English， for the eyepolitic in Anchuria was an active one. But Englehart wasa diplomatist. There existed but one code upon whichhe might make requisition with promise of safety—thegreat and potent code of Slang. So， here is the messagethat slipped， unconstrued， through the fingers of curiousofficials， and came to the eye of Goodwin：
“His Nibs skedaddled yesterday per jack-rabbit linewith all the coin in the kitty and the bundle of muslin he’sspoony about. The boodle is six figures short. Our crowdin good shape， but we need the spondulicks. You collar it.
The main guy and the dry goods are headed for the briny.
You to know what to do. BOB.”
This screed， remarkable as it was， had no mysteryfor Goodwin. He was the most successful of the smalladvance-guard of speculative Americans that had invadedAnchuria， and he had not reached that enviable pinnaclewithout having well exercised the arts of foresight anddeduction. He had taken up political intrigue as a matterof business. He was acute enough to wield a certaininfluence among the leading schemers， and he wasprosperous enough to be able to purchase the respect ofthe petty-officeholders. There was always a revolutionaryparty； and to it he had allied himself； for the adherentsof a new administration received the rewards of theirlabors. There was now a Liberal party seeking to overturnPresident Miraflores. If the wheel successfully revolved，Goodwin stood to win a concession to 30，000 manzanasof the finest coffee lands in the interior. Certain incidentsin the recent career of President Miraflores had excited ashrewd suspicion in Goodwin’s mind that the governmentwas near a dissolution from another cause than that of arevolution， and now Englehart’s telegram had come as acorroboration of his wisdom.
