Geddie came down to the consulate to explain theduties and workings of the office. He and Keogh tried tointerest the new consul in their description of the workthat his government expected him to perform.
“It’s all right，” said Johnnie from the hammock thathe had set up as the official reclining place. “If anythingturns up that has to be done I’ll let you fellows do it. Youcan’t expect a Democrat to work during his first term ofholding office.”
“You might look over these headings，” suggestedGeddie， “of the different lines of exports you will have tokeep account of. The fruit is classified； and there are thevaluable woods， coffee， rubber—”
“That last account sounds all right，” interrupted Mr.
Atwood. “Sounds as if it could be stretched. I want to buya new flag， a monkey， a guitar and a barrel of pineapples.
Will the rubber account stretch over ’em？”
“That’s merely statistics，” said Geddie， smiling. “Theexpense account is what you want. It is supposed to havea slight elasticity. The ‘stationery’ items are sometimescarelessly audited by the State Department.”
“We’re wasting our time，” said Keogh. “This man wasborn to hold office. He penetrates to the root of the art atone step of his eagle eye. The true genius of governmentshows 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 theworld where they didn’t talk about farms. There are nonehere， are there？”
“Not the kind you are acquainted with，” answered the exconsul.
“There is no such art here as agriculture. There neverwas a plow or a reaper within the boundaries of Anchuria.”
“This is the country for me，” murmured the consul， andimmediately he fell asleep.
The cheerful tintypist pursued his intimacy withJohnny in spite of open charges that he did so to obtain apreemption on a seat in that coveted spot， the rear galleryof the consulate. But whether his designs were selfish orpurely friendly， Keogh achieved that desirable privilege.
Few were the nights on which the two could not be foundreposing there in the sea breeze， with their heels on therailing， and the cigars and brandy conveniently near.
One evening they sat thus， mainly silent， for their talk haddwindled before the stilling influence of an unusual night.
There was a great， full moon； and the sea mother-ofpearl.
Almost every sound was hushed， for the air was butfaintly stirring； and the town lay panting， waiting for thenight to cool. Offshore lay the fruit steamer Andador， ofthe Vesuvius line， full-laden and scheduled to sail at sixin the morning. There were no loiterers on the beach. Sobright was the moonlight that the two men could see thesmall pebbles shining on the beach where the gentle surfwetted them.
Then down the coast， tacking close to shore， slowlyswam a little sloop， white-winged like some snowy seafowl. Its course lay within twenty points of the wind’s eye；so it veered in and out again in long， slow strokes like themovements of a graceful skater.
Again the tactics of its crew brought it close in shore，this time nearly opposite the consulate； and then thereblew from the sloop clear and surprising notes as if froma horn of elfland. A fairy bugle it might have been， sweetand silvery and unexpected， playing with spirit the familiarair of “Home， Sweet Home.”
It was a scene set for the land of the lotus. The authorityof the sea and the tropics， the mystery that attendsunknown sails， and the prestige of drifting music onmoonlit waters gave it an anodynous charm. JohnnyAtwood felt it， and thought of Dalesburg； but as soonas Keogh’s mind had arrived at a theory concerning theperipatetic solo he sprang to the railing， and his ear-rendingyawp fractured the silence of Coralio like a cannon shot.
“Mel-lin-ger a-hoy！”
The sloop was now on its outward tack； but from itcame a clear， answering hail：
“Good-bye， Billy... go-ing home—bye！”
The Andador was the sloop’s destination. No doubtsome passenger with a sailing permit from some up-thecoastpoint had come down in this sloop to catch theregular fruit steamer on its return trip. Like a coquettishpigeon the little boat tacked on its eccentric way until atlast its white sail was lost to sight against the larger bulkof the fruiter’s side.
“That’s old H. P. Mellinger，” explained Keogh， droppingback into his chair. “He’s going back to New York. He wasa private secretary of the late hot-foot president of thisgrocery and fruit stand that they call a country. His job’sover now； and I guess old Mellinger is glad.”
“Why does he disappear to music， like Zo-zo， the magicqueen？” asked Johnny. “Just to show ’em that he doesn’tcare？”
“That noise you heard is a phonograph，” said Keogh. “Isold him that. Mellinger had a graft in this country thatwas the only thing of its kind in the world. The tootingmachine saved it for him once， and he always carried itaround with him afterward.”
“Tell me about it，” demanded Johnny， betraying interest.
“I’m no disseminator of narratives，” said Keogh. “I canuse language for purposes of speech； but when I attempta discourse the words come out as they will， and they maymake sense when they strike the atmosphere， or they maynot.”
“I want to hear about the graft，” persisted Johnny，“You’ve got no right to refuse. I’ve told you all about everyman， woman and hitching post in Dalesburg.”
“You shall hear it，” said Keogh. “I said my instincts ofnarrative were perplexed. Don’t you believe it. It’s an artI’ve acquired along with many other of the graces andsciences.”
