The situation had been justly outlined by Keogh. Thedown trail from the capital was at all times a weary roadto travel. A jiggety-joggety journey it was； ice-cold andhot， wet and dry. The trail climbed appalling mountains，wound like a rotten string about the brows of breathlessprecipices， plunged through chilling snow-fed streams， andwriggled like a snake through sunless forests teeming withmenacing insect and animal life. After descending to thefoothills it turned to a trident， the central prong endingat Alazan. Another branched off to Coralio； the thirdpenetrated to Solitas. Between the sea and the foothillsstretched the five miles breadth of alluvial coast. Here wasthe flora ofthe tropics in its rankest and most prodigalgrowth. Spaces here and there had been wrested fromthe jungle and planted with bananas and cane and orangegroves. The rest was a riot of wild vegetation， the homeof monkeys， tapirs， jaguars， alligators， and prodigiousreptiles and insects. Where no road was cut a serpentcould scarcely make its way through the tangle of vinesand creepers. Across the treacherous mangrove swampsfew things without wings could safely pass. Therefore thefugitives could hope to reach the coast only by one of theroutes named.
“Keep the matter quiet， Billy，” advised Goodwin. “Wedon’t want the Ins to know that the president is in flight. Isuppose Bob’s information is something of a scoop in thecapital as yet. Otherwise he would not have tried to makehis message a confidential one； and， besides， everybodywould have heard the news. I’m going around now tosee Dr. Zavalla， and start a man up the trail to cut thetelegraph wire.”
As Goodwin rose， Keogh threw his hat upon the grassby the door and expelled a tremendous sigh.
“What’s the trouble， Billy？” asked Goodwin， pausing.
“That’s the first time I heard you sigh.”
“’Tis the last，” said Keogh. “With that sorrowful puffof wind I resign myself to a life of praiseworthy butharassing honesty. What are tintypes， if you please， to theopportunities of the great and hilarious class of gandersand geese？ Not that I would be a president， Frank—andthe boodle he’s got is too big for me to handle—but insome ways I feel my conscience hurting me for addictingmyself to photographing a nation instead of running awaywith it. Frank， did you ever see the ’bundle of muslin’ thatHis Excellency has wrapped up and carried off？”
“Isabel Guilbert？” said Goodwin， laughing. “No， I neverdid. From what I’ve heard of her， though， I imagine thatshe wouldn’t stick at anything to carry her point. Don’tget romantic， Billy. Sometimes I begin to fear that there’sIrish blood in your ancestry.”
“I never saw her either，” went on Keogh； “but they sayshe’s got all the ladies of mythology， sculpture， and fictionreduced to chromos. They say she can look at a man once，and he’ll turn monkey and climb trees to pick coconutsfor her. Think of that president man with Lord knowhow many hundreds of thousands of dollars in one hand，and this muslin siren in the other， galloping down the hillon a sympathetic mule amid songbirds and flowers！ Andhere is Billy Keogh， because he is virtuous， condemnedto the unprofitable swindle of slandering the faces ofmissing links on tin for an honest living！ ’Tis an injusticeof nature.”
“Cheer up，” said Goodwin. “You are a pretty poor fox tobe envying a gander. Maybe the enchanting Guilbert willtake a fancy to you and your tintypes after we impoverishher royal escort.”
“She could do worse，” reflected Keogh； “but she won’t.
’Tis not a tintype gallery， but a gallery of the gods thatshe’s fitted to adorn. She’s a very wicked lady， and thepresident man is in luck. But I hear Clancy swearing inthe back room for having to do all the work.” And Keoghplunged for the rear of the “gallery，” whistling gaily ina spontaneous way that belied his recent sigh over thequestionable good luck of the flying president.
Goodwin turned from the main street into a muchnarrower one that intersected it at a right angle.
These side streets were covered by a growth of thick，rank grass， which was kept to a navigable shortness bythe machetes of the police. Stone sidewalks， little morethan a ledge in width， ran along the base of the mean andmonotonous adobe houses. At the outskirts of the villagethese streets dwindled to nothing； and here were set thepalm-thatched huts of the Caribs and the poorer natives，and the shabby cabins of negroes from Jamaica and theWest India islands. A few structures raised their headsabove the red-tiled roofs of the one-story houses—the belltower of the Calaboza， the Hotel de los Extranjeros， theresidence of the Vesuvius Fruit Company’s agent， the storeand residence of Bernard Brannigan， a ruined cathedral inwhich Columbus had once set foot， and， most imposingof all， the Casa Morena—the summer “White House” ofthe President of Anchuria. On the principal street runningalong the beach—the Broadway of Coralio—were thelarger stores， the government bodega and post-office， thecuartel， the rum-shops and the market place.
On his way Goodwin passed the house of BernardBrannigan. It was a modern wooden building， two storiesin height. The ground floor was occupied by Brannigan’sstore， the upper one contained the living apartments. Awide cool porch ran around the house half way up its outerwalls. A handsome， vivacious girl neatly dressed in flowingwhite leaned over the railing and smiled down uponGoodwin. She was no darker than many an Andalusian ofhigh descent； and she sparkled and glowed like a tropicalmoonlight.
“Good evening， Miss Paula，” said Goodwin， taking offhis hat， with his ready smile. There was little differencein his manner whether he addressed women or men.
Everybody in Coralio liked to receive the salutation of thebig American.
“Is there any news， Mr. Goodwin？ Please don’t sayno. Isn’t it warm？ I feel just like Mariana in her moatedgrange—or was it a range？ —it’s hot enough.”
“No， there’s no news to tell， I believe，” said Goodwin，with a mischievous look in his eye， “except that old Geddieis getting grumpier and crosser every day. If somethingdoesn’t happen to relieve his mind I’ll have to quitsmoking on his back porch—and there’s no other placeavailable that is cool enough.”
“He isn’t grumpy，” said Paula Brannigan， impulsively，“when he—”
But she ceased suddenly， and drew back with adeepening color； for her mother had been a mestizo lady，and the Spanish blood had brought to Paula a certainshyness that was an adornment to the other half of herdemonstrative nature.
