XV

DICKY

There is little consecutiveness along the Spanish Main. Things happen
there intermittently. Even Time seems to hang his scythe daily on the
branch of an orange tree while he takes a siesta and a cigarette.

After the ineffectual revolt against the administration of President
Losada, the country settled again into quiet toleration of the abuses
with which he had been charged. In Coralio old political enemies
went arm-in-arm, lightly eschewing for the time all differences of
opinion.

The failure of the art expedition did not stretch the cat-footed
Keogh upon his back. The ups and downs of Fortune made smooth
travelling for his nimble steps. His blue pencil stub was at work
again before the smoke of the steamer on which White sailed had
cleared away from the horizon. He had but to speak a word to Geddie
to find his credit negotiable for whatever goods he wanted from the
store of Brannigan & Company. On the same day on which White arrived
in New York Keogh, at the rear of a train of five pack mules loaded
with hardware and cutlery, set his face toward the grim, interior
mountains. There the Indian tribes wash gold dust from the auriferous
streams; and when a market is brought to them trading is brisk and
_muy bueno_ in the Cordilleras.

In Coralio Time folded his wings and paced wearily along his drowsy
path. They who had most cheered the torpid hours were gone. Clancy
had sailed on a Spanish barque for Colon, contemplating a cut across
the isthmus and then a further voyage to end at Calao, where the
fighting was said to be on. Geddie, whose quiet and genial nature had
once served to mitigate the frequent dull reaction of lotus eating,
was now a home-man, happy with his bright orchid, Paula, and never
even dreaming of or regretting the unsolved, sealed and monogramed
Bottle whose contents, now inconsiderable, were held safely in the
keeping of the sea.

Well may the Walrus, most discerning and eclectic of beasts, place
sealing-wax midway on his programme of topics that fall pertinent and
diverting upon the ear.

Atwood was gone--he of the hospitable back porch and ingenuous
cunning. Dr. Gregg, with his trepanning story smouldering within him,
was a whiskered volcano, always showing signs of imminent eruption,
and was not to be considered in the ranks of those who might
contribute to the amelioration of ennui. The new consul's note chimed
with the sad sea waves and the violent tropical greens--he h