door was a sign that read
"Keogh and Clancy"--a nomenclature that seemed not to be indigenous
to that tropical soil. The man in the door was Billy Keogh, scout
of fortune and progress and latter-day rover of the Spanish Main.
Tintypes and photographs were the weapons with which Keogh and Clancy
were at that time assailing the hopeless shores. Outside the shop
were set two large frames filled with specimens of their art and
skill.

Keogh leaned in the doorway, his bold and humorous countenance
wearing a look of interest at the unusual influx of life and sound
into the street. When the meaning of the disturbance became clear to
him he placed a hand beside his mouth and shouted: "Hey! Frank!" in
such a robustious voice that the feeble clamour of the natives was
drowned and silenced.

Fifty yards away, on the seaward side of the street, stood the abode
of the consul for the United States. Out from the door of this
building tumbled Goodwin at the call. He had been smoking with
Willard Geddie, the consul, on the back porch of the consulate, which
was conceded to be the coolest spot in Coralio.

"Hurry up," shouted Keogh. "There's a riot in town on account of a
telegram that's come for you. You want to be careful about these
things, my boy. It won't do to trifle with the feelings of the
public this way. You'll be getting a pink note some day with violet
scent on it; and then the country'll be steeped in the throes of a
revolution."

Goodwin had strolled up the street and met the boy with the message.
The ox-eyed women gazed at him with shy admiration, for his type drew
them. He was big, blonde, and jauntily dressed in white linen, with
buckskin _zapatos_. His manner was courtly, with a sort of kindly
truculence in it, tempered by a merciful eye. When the telegram had
been delivered, and the bearer of it dismissed with a gratuity, the
relieved populace returned to the contiguities of shade from which
curiosity had drawn it--the women to their baking in the mud ovens
under the orange-trees, or to the interminable combing of their
long, straight hair; the men to their cigarettes and gossip in the
cantinas.

Goodwin sat on Keogh's doorstep, and read his telegram. It was from
Bob Englehart, an American, who lived in San Mateo, the capital city
of Anchuria, eighty miles in the interior. Englehart was a gold
miner, an ardent revolutionist and "good people." That he was a man
of resource and imagination was proven by the tele