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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 “ jack-rabbit 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 the telegram.
“ '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, and —"
“ You do not,” interrupted Keogh. “You've got a fine sporting game
head with · All Around the Rosebush.' The spirit of 'Fox-in-theMorning' 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-theMorning!' Me and you, standing here, we say:
Goose and the 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 commences.”
“I catch the idea," said Goodwin. “It won't do to let the goose and gander slip through our 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 of the 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 wire.”
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 ever heard you sigh.”
“ 'Tis the last,” said Keogh. 66 With that sorrowful puff of wind I resign myself to a life of praiseworthy but harassing honesty. What are tintypes,