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Atwood, of Dalesburg; and you might know every thought conceived in his bosom.
Geddie came down to the consulate to explain the duties and workings of the office. He and Keogh tried to interest the new consul in their description of the work that his government expected him to perform.
“It's all right,” said Johnny from the hammock that he had set up as the official reclining place. “If anything turns up that has to be done I'll let you fellows do it. You can't expect a Democrat to work during his first term of holding office.”
“You might look over these headings,” suggested Geddie,“ of the different lines of exports you will have to keep account of. The fruit is classified; and there are the valuable woods, coffee, rubber --"
That last account sounds all right," interrupted Mr. Atwood. “ Sounds as if it could be stretched. I want to buy a new flag, a monkey, a guitar and a barrel of pineapples. Will that rubber account stretch over 'em ?”
“That's merely statistics,” said Geddie, smiling. “The expense account is what you want. It is supposed to have a slight elasticity. The stationery' items are sometimes carelessly audited by the State Department.”
“We're wasting our time," said Keogh. “This man was born to hold office. He penetrates to the root of the art at one step of his eagle eye. The true genius of government shows its hand in every word of his speech."
“I didn't take this job with any intention of working,” explained Johnny, lazily. “I wanted to go somewhere in the world where they didn't talk about farms. There are none here, are there?”
“Not the kind you are acquainted with," answered the ex-consul. “There is no such art here as agriculture. There never was a plow or a reaper
within the boundaries of Anchuria.”
“This is the country for me," murmured the consul, and immediately he fell asleep.
The cheerful tintypist pursued his intimacy with Johnny in spite of open charges that he did so to obtain a preëmption on a seat in that coveted spot, the rear gallery of the consulate. But whether his designs were selfish or purely friendly, Keogh achieved that desirable privilege. Few were the nights on which the two could not be found reposing there in the sea breeze, with their heels on the railing, and the cigars and brandy conveniently near.
One evening they sat thus, mainly silent, for their talk had dwindled before the stilling influence of an unusual night.
There was a great, full moon; and the sea was mother-of-pearl. Almost every sound was hushed, for the air was but faintly stirring; and the town lay panting, waiting for the night to cool. Off-shore lay the fruit steamer Andador, of the Vesuvius line, full-laden and scheduled to sail at six in the morning. There were no loiterers on the beach. So bright was the moonlight that the two men could see the small pebbles shining on the beach where the gentle surf wetted them,
Then down the coast, tacking close to shore, slowly swam a little sloop, white-winged like some snowy sea fowl. Its course lay within twenty points of the wind's eye; so it veered in and out again in long, slow strokes like the movements of a graceful skater.
Again the tactics of its crew brought it close in. shore, this time nearly opposite the consulate; and then there blew from the sloop clear and surprising notes as if from a horn of elfland. A fairy bugle it might have been, sweet and silvery and unexpected, playing with spirit the familiar air of “Home, Sweet Home.”
It was a scene set for the land of the lotus. The authority of the sea and the tropics, the mystery that attends unknown sails, and the prestige of drifting music on moonlit waters gave it an anodynous charm. Johnny Atwood felt it, and thought of Dalesburg; but as soon as Keogh's mind had arrived at a theory concerning the peripatetic solo he sprang to the railing, and his ear-rending yawp fractured the silence of Coralio like a cannon shot.
Mel-lin-ger a-hoy! The sloop was now on its outward tack; but from it came a clear, answering hail:
Good-bye, Billy . . go-ing home — bye!" The Andador was the sloop's destination. No doubt some passenger with a sailing permit from some up-the-coast point had come down in this sloop to catch the regular fruit steamer on its return trip.
Like a coquettish pigeon the little boat tacked on its eccentric way until at last its white sail was lost to sight against the larger bulk of the fruiter's side.
“That's old H. P. Mellinger,” explained Keogh, dropping back into his chair. “He's going back to New York. He was private secretary of the late hot-foot president of this grocery and fruit stand that they call a country. His job's over now; and I guess old Mellinger is glad.”
"Why does he disappear to music, like Zo-zo, the magic queen ?” asked Johnny. “Just to show 'em that he doesn't care ?”
“That noise you heard is a phonograph," said Keogh. “I sold him that. Mellinger had a graft in this country that was the only thing of its kind in the world. The tooting machine saved it for him once, and he always carried it around with him afterward."
“Tell me about it," demanded Johnny, betraying interest.
“I'm no disseminator of narratives,” said Keogh. "I can use language for purposes of speech; but when I attempt a discourse the words come out as